
FT MEADE 

CenCol I 









The Shadow of a Crime 




Based on the German ^^Seile der Liebe^^ 

of Alfred Ira/j*^eAA^, 






By 

MARY E, IRELAND 




St. Louis, Mo. 

CONCORDIA PUBLISHING HOUSE 
1916 



DEC 7 li!| 


/ 


c. i r 


L 




CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Chapter I. Free to Roam 7 

Chapter II. Their Refuse for the Xiglit 10 

Cliapter III. The ^Minister and Ili:^ Wife 21 

Chapter IV. They Find a Home 33 

Chaptei- y. Unexpected Visitors 41 

(Jhapter ^’1. The Debatino- Society 50 

Chapter Vll. Excursion to Evergreen Lake 04 

Cliapter VI 11; A Trying Experience 77 

Chapter IX. Rev. Ed^ar Cordon’s Advice 87 

Clia])ter X. A Troubled Hour 90 

Chapter XI. A Silver Lining to the Cloud 109 

Chapter XU. Farewells 120 




CHAPTER I. 

Free to Roam. 

It was about five o’clock in the afternoon of a pleasant 
day in IMay, when the warden of the penitentiary at Water- 
field touched the button of the bell upon a table at his side, 
and its tones went echoing through the corridors of the 
great building. 

The call was answered by one of the guards, who entered 
the ofiice promptly, and looked inquiringly at its occupant. 

“Bring the two prisoners from Ho. 304,” was the com- 
mand; and the guard nodded and left the office. 

He went through a long corridor, where twilight, instead 
of the cheerful beams of the afternoon sun, reigned, through 
another corridor, ascended a flight of steps to another cor- 
ridor, which he followed to the extreme end of the building, 
halting at the door of cell 304, which he unlocked. 

Within were two young men, scarcely past boyhood, clad 
in the striped clothing of the penitentiary. 

The one was slender and tall for his sixteen years, and 
had blond hair, fair complexion, and blue eyes. The other, 
a few months older, had dark hair and eyes, and an earnest 
cast of countenance. Xeither of them had the appearance 
of being evil-doers. 

Their hair was closely shorn, as was the rule of the 
l)i-ison, causing the blond youth to have the appearance of 
baldness. 

“You are to come to the office of the warden,” said the 
guard, as both looked up in questioning surprise. 

They obeyed in silence, stepped into the corridor, waited 
until the guard locked the door, and then followed his lead. 

The warden arose at their entrance and looked search- 
ingly, yet kindly, at them. 


— 8 


‘‘How long have you been here?” he said. 

“One year.” I 

“How long will it be until your sentence expires?” ' 

“One year.” 

“In consideration of your youth and exemplary conduct 
during the year I have just received from the authorities the 
pleasant message that you need not serve the second year; 
from this hour you are free to go.” 

The faces of the two brightened wonderfully, and they 
stammered their hearty thanks. 

“I congratulate you,” returned the warden, feelingly. 
“I have had more satisfaction with you than with the majority 
of prisoners, and I have the conviction that you will now be 
worthy and useful men. You can now go to the wardrobe 
room, put on your own clothing, and come again to this 
office.” 

The guard led the way to the wardrobe-room, the prison- 
stripes were quickly laid aside, and with hearts beating with 
excitement over their unexpected release, they resumed the 
suits they had worn when arrested. The guard gave them 
their combs, pocketknives, and pencils, and again led the 
way to the office. 

“Here is a trifle of money for a beginning in your new 
life,” said the warden, as he put a few pieces of silver into 
their hands. “People generally say when parting from 
friends, ‘Auf Wiedersehn,’ but I will not say that, but, 
instead, hope never to see you here again. My earnest wish 
for you is that you may have success in life, amid happy sur- 
roundings, as honored and useful citizens. Be diligent, 
honest, and upright in mind and conduct, and you will have 
your reward. The world stands open before you, blot out 
the stain of your imprisonment by good citizenship in faith- 
ful attention to duty, and all will be well with you. How, 
farewell, and may God be with you!” 

He shook their hands cordially, and the guard conducted 
them through the gloomy building into the cheery sunlight 
of the outer world. 

On either side of the path that led through the court-yard 


— 9 


bloomed geraniums, verbenas, gladioli, and larkspurs. The 
place resembled the lawn of a comfortable homestead instead 
of the entrance to a prison. 

Their attendant opened the gate that led to the street, 
and, shaking hands with them, bade them good-bye in his 
official manner. Hundreds of men he had let in and out 
of that gate. When they entered, he said to himself, ‘‘They 
are rascals,” and when they made their exit, he finished the 
sentence by saying, “and will remain rascals.” In this remark 
lay his worldly wisdom. He never asked them where they 
intended to go, or what they intended to undertake for self- 
support. He took no interest in them in any way. As soon 
as they were out of the yard and gate, he closed the latter, 
and returned to the building, his first care being to cleanse 
the cell they had left, in order that it might be in readiness 
for the next occupant. 

IMean while the two young men who were now having 
a taste of freedom, walked in silence past the high wall, 
looking neither to the right nor to the left, but feeling in 
their humiliation that, if any dwellers upon the street saw 
them from their windows, they would recognize them as 
discharged convicts. They avoided the gaze of the passers-by, 
having the consciousness that the brand of shame was upon 
them, and all must see it. 

The prison was a mile behind them before they halted 
to take breath. 

“Thank God we are free!” ejaculated Theodore, the dark- 
haired one, as he wiped the moisture from his forehead. 

“Yes, thank God!” replied his companion, “we are free, 
and no one will ever see me inside of prison-walls again.” 

“Where now, Albert?” asked Theodore. 

“Yes, where? Anywhere, only that we may be among 
people.” 

“But I will not go home.” 

“Nor will I, at least not for a time; how could we, no 
matter how much we wish it ? To Fairview is a long journey ; 
it would be impossible for us to walk, and we have no money 
to go by railroad. No, we cannot go home.” 


10 


“And more than all is — the shame,” whispered his com- 
panion. 

“Yes, our parents and other relatives have no idea where 
we have been for the last year; perhaps they think we are 
dead, and we must leave them in that belief. Oh, Theodore, 
that infamous imprisonment! We are disgraced for life!” 

Both were silent for a time, and did not raise their eyes 
from the ground. 

“Come,” said Theodore at length, “let us keep on toward 
the north and search for work.” 

“Who will employ us ?” 

“There is no need of telling people where we have been.” 

“Yo”; and with the courage given by this thought, they 
drew their hats over their eyes and walked on. 

“What shall be our goal?” 

“I don’t know; let it be anywhere straight ahead, and to 
the North Pole, if need heN 


CHAPTER II. 

Their Refuge for the Night. 

It was about half past eight that evening when a railway 
train steamed into the station at INIedina, and several trav- 
elers stepped out, among them two boys with closely-cropped 
hair. The dark-haired one was Theodore Summers, the blond 
one Albert Stiller. 

With do^vn-cast faces they walked the platform, avoiding 
the gaze of those who were waiting to receive friends. No 
one was waiting for them, none to welcome them; and with 
almost unbearable longing in their hearts to be hidden again 
from the world, they passed through the waiting-room and 
up the street. 

Coachmen stood in line, whips in hand, calling to hoped- 
for passengers for their coaches, but did not solicit the 
])atronage pf Theodore and Albert, seeming to be aware that 
they needed no conveyance. 

At length the two reached the corner of the street, and 


11 


stood there looking about them, not knowing what course to 
take. People were hurrying in every direction, and were 
clearly visible under the light of the electric lamps and the 
lights from windows; but no one seemed to notice the two 
homeless ones. 

“What now?” asked Albert, despairingly; “here we are, 
but in what position ! When we could walk no longer, we 
were compelled to ride, and the journey has taken all our 
money. No one knows us, and we know no one. What are 
we to do ?” 

“We must search for a lodging-house.” 

“But without money, who will take us?” 

“We must try; we can’t do any worse than be refused. — 
Can you direct us to a (piiSt inn?” he continued, turning 
to a man who was passing. 

“Certainly, there are several near; there is ‘The Friendly 
Inn,’ ‘The Travelers’ Lodging-House,’ and farther down the 
street is ‘The Owl House.’ ” 

“Are they expensive hotels?” 

“About a dollar a day; that isn’t much.” 

Tbe two glanced at each other, and each understood that, 
cheaii as these places were, they had not the means to go 
as boarders. 

“We are workmen,” explained Theodore, “and wish 
a, boar<ling-place where the meals would cost us less than 
the price you mention. Do you know of a cheaper place, 
not far away?” 

“Oh, yes, in the next block is a hostelry where country 
))eople who come into town feed their horses and get their 
luH'r. You could go there.” 

The young men thanked him, and soon reached the place. 
A sign-board with gilt letters informed the public that the 
ec‘I(d)rated X beer was constantly on hand, and upon the 
long i)orch sat several men smoking their pipes, and enjoying 
the cool of the evening, while through the oi^en door came 
th(‘ confused sound of men’s voices, the clinking of glasses, 
and the rank odor of intoxicating drinks. 


12 — 


“Will we go asked Albert, turning a disheartened 

look to his companion. 

“We can do no better.” 

In the bar-room was a motley crowd of smokers, and along 
one of the walls were round tables, at which sat card-players, 
their beer close at hand, and a bar-tender ran here and there 
carrying beer, and taking away empty glasses. 

Behind the counter was the innkeeper, a coarse, red-faced 
man in white apron, so busily engaged in drawing beer that 
he had no time to give more than a passing glance to the new- 
comers. 

Bude pictures were upon the walls, and near the door 
was a placard which informed the public that everything in 
the way of meat and drink could be obtained there, the terms 
being strictly cash. 

“We cannot stay here,” said Albert in a low tone; “let 
us go.” 

“But where? We can give the place a trial; perhaps 
we can stay here until we can do better,” and he stepped 
to the counter. 

“What will the gentlemen have?” asked the innkeeper 
blandly, but cautiously; for a person in his business is expert 
in reading faces ; he saw that they were out of their element, 
and judged that they were short of funds. 

“We would ask if we can have meals and lodging here 
for a short time,” explained Theodore. 

“Certainly; we have the best accommodations for all 
who come. Where did the gentlemen say they were from?” 

He knew they had not told him, and he asked the question 
while casting a complacent glance upon his fat hands, which 
were busily engaged in arranging glasses upon the counter. 

He noticed that the question was an embarrassing one to 
the young men, and waited, apparently unconcerned, for 
a reply. 

“We took the train at Merwin,” was Theodore’s answer; 
and this was true, for it was at that village that they sud- 
denly resolved to take a train going northward; “we are 
looking for employment.” 


13 — 


“Very good, very good ! There is plenty of work here, and 
young men are in especial demand. Of course, you have 
already obtained work?” 

“Xo, but we hope to; perhaps you can tell us where we 
might have a chance to get employment.” 

“Everywhere; bright boys like you can get it for the 
mere asking. What kind of work can you do?” 

“Almost any kind»” 

“Good, very good ! When young gentlemen can turn their 
hands to anything, they are sure to come to the front. What 
have the gentlemen been doing lately?” 

“We — we have done many things,” stammered Theodore, 
as his and Albert’s face flushed painfully and their eyes 
drooped. He did not wish to proclaim publicly that in the 
penitentiary they had made boots and shoes, besides other 
odd jobs. 

“Better and better,” affirmed the innkeeper, nodding his 
head energetically as if to say, “Xow I have all the infor- 
mation I need.” “Certainly, certainly, the gentlemen can 
have board and accommodations here; only four dollars a 
week, everything included : meals, lodging-rooms, service, each 
and everything for the small sum of four dollars a week; 
a ruinous sum when one considers the perfect meals and 
service one gets for that price. Just as good as the best, 
hotels furnish. Of course, I couldn’t do it if I didn’t receive 

the money in advance, and all my patrons give this willingly. 

% 

Xow the gentlemen can pay their four dollars and be shown 
to their rooms.” 

“But we have no money,” said Theodore, flushing vividly. 

“Xo money? Oh, the young gentleman is surely joking; 
young men always have money.” 

“Xo, we are telling you the exact truth. We are entirely 
out of funds, but we are honest, and will pay you out of our 
first earnings.” 

“I don’t doubt your honesty in the least ; every gentleman 
is honest; but I cannot buy my provisions on promises; 
I must have the money from you in advance, or — ” and he 
shrugged his shoulders significantly. 


14 — 


“You could attach the wages.”” 

“Yes, when you have any to attach; good, very good, but 
you must first get work, then come wages.” 

“You said we would have no difficulty in getting em- 
plojunent.” 

“And I said what I believe, young gentlemen; yes, I do 
believe it, hut I cannot buy supplies on what may come 
to pass.” 

The two petitioners looked at each other as they turned 
away. 

“I told you so,” reminded Albert; “it’s of no use to try 
without money. Well, all that is left for us is to go,” and 
they moved toward the door. 

“Ho, wait a minute!” called a red-faced man from one 
of tlie card tables, and jumping up from his seat, he came 
toward them with his cards in his hand. 

“Have you nothing that you could leave as security; no 
trunk or watch, or anything of value?” 

The young men were too embarrassed to speak; they 
knew that their conversation with the innkeeper had been 
overheard. They only shook their heads. 

“Oil, well, you must not lose heart; there is always a way,” 
comforted the man, his aim being to aid the innkeeper in 
securing two new boarders. “Is there no one in Medina who 
knows you, and who would go security for the payment of 
your board ?” 

“Not one human being; we are strangers in the city,” 
answered Albert, hopelessly. 

“That certainly does not look promising,” said the man 
in a regretful tone. “Are you members of any church?” 

“No, we were confirmed, but as yet are not connected with 
any church in this place,” replied Albert, truthfully. 

“There is a Lutheran minister, who lives not far from 
here, and who seeks and helps people that are in trouble. 
He has helped many, and he will help you, I am sure. Go 
and see him.” 

“We are not beggars,” said Albert, despondently. 

“But this would not be begging; just explain to him how 


15 — 


it is with you, and ask him if he will be responsible for your 
board here, until you can help yourself. lie will do this; 
he has often helped young people who came here as strangers, 
and in time he gets them into his church. Oh, he is certainly 
a good man, everybody knows that.” 

“If he will help us, and if the landlord will accept us on 
his willingness to be security, then — ” 

“He will; he has done it before. I will ask him.” 

He stepped to the counter and spoke to the innkeeper 
in a low tone, receiving an affirmative nod in response; and 
he called to them : — 

“Certainly, my young gentlemen. Just bring a few lines 
from the preacher, and you can stay here; his word is as 
good as the money in hand.” 

“Now go to him; his name is Rev. Edgar Gordon; it is 
on the door-plate of the parsonage,” and giving explicit di- 
rections where the minister’s residence was to be found, he 
returned to his game of cards. 

“Shall we go to the minister?” asked Theodore, as the two 
went out and walked down the street. 

“It is so late; he will be in bed,” replied Albert, de- 
spondingly. 

“It is not more than half past nine, and pastors are apt 
to sit up late; and really, I am hungry; I would like to 
have something to eat.” 

“Would we beg food of him?” 

“Perhaps he would offer it when we tell him all.” 

“Would you really tell him all?” 

“No, surely not,” answered Theodore, decidedly. 

“But there would be nothing else to do if we go to him; 
if we keep anything back, he will know it; he will get the 
whole story out of us.” 

“It may be that he will take pity on us.” 

“Perhaps so; but I would rather not have it. I am 
resolved not to go to him.” 

“What then? We must have some one to vouch for us, 
or we will find no shelter or food.” 


16 — 


“I would remain hungry upon the street rather than tell 
our story to the minister.” 

The despair of Albert brought the spirits of Theodore 
to a low ebb, and both were silent for some time. 

“Will we look for another inn?” asked Theodore at length. 

Albert made no reply, and they walked on until they halted 
before a dwelling which had a sign, “Boarders Wanted.” 

“That is a pressing invitation to go in; shall we accept 
it?” asked Theodore with grim humor. 

They went in and were received by a pleasant-looking 
woman, a widow, who was very willing to answer their 
questions. Yes, she took boarders, and her table and beds 
were good, and the service all that could be wished for, but 
strangers must pay in advance. Oh, the bother and anxiety 
she had endured because boarders had failed to pay her, and 
her kindness had been repaid with ingratitude. So she had 
come to the unalterable conclusion not to show her rooms 
to any one who did not pay in advance, for no one could be 
trusted. 

The discouraged and humiliated ones were again upon 
the street, and Albert was the first to speak. 

“It is of no use,” he said, despairingly, “the people know 
that we are just out of prison.” 

“Let us make another trial,” said Theodore, whose hunger 
made him willing to endure rebuffs. 

“Oh, no,” replied his weaker companion, “I am so ex- 
hausted I wish I could lie down and die. This world has 
no place for us and no bread; it is a well-deserved punish- 
ment we are getting.” 

“Do not give up to despair, Albert,” said his companion, 
tenderly; “no tree falls at the first stroke; let us try again 
to get a lodging.” 

“I will try no more.” 

“Then stay here, and I will go and try to gain some in- 
formation that may be of use to us.” 

“But I cannot stand here upon the street; people look 
at me curiously. I believe they would put me in a cell with- 
out ceremony.” 


17 — 


“Then go back to the depot and stay there until I come; 
I will find a place before I see you again. Now don’t lose 
your courage.” 

“That is entirely gone.” 

“Hunger has roused it in me; I will go, and will meet 
you at the depot.” 

Theodore hurried away, and Albert walked slowly to the 
depot, where he sought a dark corner and sank down with 
a sigh of satisfaction. From his retired nook he saw people 
coming and going, their thoughts apparently upon their own 
business and interests. They came singly and in groups; 
some engaged in cheerful conversation, others laughing, others 
silent, but no one had a glance for the weary and heavy- 
hearted Albert, no more than the numberless insects that 
buzzed and circled in the lamp-light. 

“These are the people who have so much love and sym- 
pathy for the poor and the outcast, and so much benevolence,” 
he said to himself bitterly, for he was hungry, weary, and 
utterly discouraged. “Yes, these are the people who make 
use of their tongues, but their hearts are hard, and their 
liands are empty.” 

“But they are not all heartless,” said a voice within. 

“Where are those who are not so ?” he questioned himself. 
“I see no difference between them.” 

“The Lutheran pastor they spoke of is not such a man; 
why not go to him?” continued the inner voice. 

“If I should go, he would search out all my past life; 
then he could censure me, and turn away from me. I will 
not go.” 

“Would he not have a right to do so?” was his next 
thought. 

“What we did was a disgraceful offense, and I have no 
excuse to offer; but I liave had my punishment, and there is 
no need for more. The memory of it should be buried instead 
of revived. There are others as bad as Theodore and I are.” 

“Excusing it, are you ?” asked the inner voice. 

“Yes, excusing it, as should every person who wishes to 
do good to their fellow-creatures. We committed a sin, it is 

Shadow of a Crimp. 2 


— 18 


true; but we wish to do right now; we wish to work and 
earn an lionorable living. We do not beg, we only ask for 
a week’s credit. People say they are sorry for us, but that 
does not give us seven days’ food and shelter. Is that neigh- 
borly love? Is it sincerity? Is it not giving the petitioner 
a friendly look and a push that drives him into deeper 
misery ? And yet the Scriptures say, ‘Give to him that asketh 
thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou 
away.’ But what regard have these pious people for the 
Scriptures? Evil-doers they all are, no better than we, only 
that we know our misdeeds and repent of them, while they 
keep on in their evil ways, and are not caught. We came 
out of the penitentiary, and they should go in; that is the 
difference between us and them.” 

Tims he reflected, but his reflections did iiot soothe the 
pangs of hunger. Instead, he grew more embittered as time 
passed on, and he saw no prospects of securing food or shelter. 

It was more than an hour before Theodore returned, and 
as soon as he came in, he looked around for his friend. 

‘TTave you found lodgings?” asked Albert as he made 
his place of hiding known. 

“Xearly, Albert, nearly,” was the reply, as Theodore took 
a seat beside him. 

“Oh, that is good; at how many doors did you knock?” 

“I s])oke to five boarding-house keepers. One had no 
spare bed ; the second no table-room, and proposed that 
I could get board elsewhere. I said I would consider, and 
went to the third, fourth, and fifth place. This is kept by 
an elderly widow, who with her grown daughter manages 
the boarding-house. She was friendly and kind.” 

“And that was all ?” 

“Xo; she said it made her sorry to hear that we had so 
much trouble in finding a place, and she would take us a week 
without paying board in advance. She added that she re- 
(piired of us to be honorable, Christian boys, as she will 
take no others in her house.” 

“A pious widow, indeed!” 

“Do not sneer, Albert. I believe she meant well by us.” 


19 


“Then why not take us?” 

“It was more my fault than hers. She asked me about 
my father and mother, and I told her that I had not seen 
them for more than a year.” 

“That was stupid of you; you should have evaded the 
question.” 

“How could I, Albert? If you had been there and looked 
into her clear eyes, you would have told her the truth, and 
without evasion. She looked upon me as an idle rover, who 
did nothing’ for his parents, and wondered where I had been 
all that time. She also asked if I attended the services of 
any church. She intimated that it spoke poorly for a young 
man to neglect religious duties, and said if I came there, 
I must go to both services with her other young boarders, and 
must not go to dancing-halls or saloons, and must tell you 
the same.” 

“Oil, the pious dame!” 

“Then she asked where you were waiting, and I told her 
"you were tired, and were resting at the depot.” 

“Not a word too strong; what did she say to that?” 

“She made no reply, but reached under a table and got 
a paper-sack, went to the kitchen and returned with it. 
Handing it to me, she said, ‘Take this to your friend quickly.’ 
I was so confused and so glad that I hurried away without 
bidding her good-night, or I believe she would have told me 
to bring you there. That is the reason why I say it was more 
my fault than hers that she did not say we could come. Here 
is the package.” 

He took it from under his coat, and opening it, found it 
contained sandwiches of fresh bread and butter, and thick 
slices of roast beef ; cake, and four boiled eggs, and roast 
sweet apples. 

“Oh, Albert, was ever anything more welcome than this?” 

It seemed to both that no food had ever tasted so good; 
they heartily enjoyed their supper. The world looked brighter 
to Albert when his hunger was appeased. 

“During your absence I judged and condemned all man- 
kind,” he said, “and I see now that I was too hasty in my 


— 20 — 


judgment. When one is hungry, the whole world looks dark; 
now my conscience condemns me.” 

“I told you that you should not despair, and you must 
remember it in future. Our way is rough and stony; but 
we have made it so. We must make the best of it, and have 
faith in God.” 

“Yes, we will; but where are we to lodge to-night?” 
“Commencing again to worry? We will go to the good 
landlady of the boarding-house and stay there.” 

“But we cannot go there,” responded Albert, after a mo- 
ment’s reflection. “She is certainly kind and generous, and 
I am grateful to lier; but she will ask searching questions, 
which will be hard to answer. Would you confide in her, and 
tell her of our miserable life in the penitentiary?” 

“No, I certainly would not.” 

“But she would cross-question us, and we could not do 
anything but tell her, and then would have to leave. She was 
friendly to you this evening, but then she would detest us.^ 
We are not the kind of young men she has about her. No, 
we must not go there; we must have a boarding-house where 
]io one will bother himself about us.” 

“But we would have to pay in advance.” 

They were silent for a time; then Albert said, “Nothing 
remains for us but to stay here.” 

“No, Albert, we must not of our own accord run into the 
hands of the police.” 

“Where, then, will we stay for the night?” 

“Here, but in a place where we will be in no one’s way.” 
“Do you mean outside?” 

“Yes, the night is clear and not cold.” 

“But the dew wdll not be good for our weakened bodies.” 
“We can find shelter somewhere. At a depot there are 
always empty freight-cars. standing about. Come, let us go 
and find one.” 

It had grown late, and as there were very few people on 
the street, they were not noticed as they went quietly out to 
the side-track, where the cars were standing. They passed 


21 


the nearest ones, and selected the most distant, but found 
them locked. 

At length they found one which was open, and Theodore 
sprang in and looked about. 

“It is empty,” he whispered to Albert, who had remained 
outside. “Cattle have been in here. Come, I will help you up.” 

He stretched out his hand; Albert grasped it, and was 
drawn quickly in. Then they crept to the straw and lay 
down in it. 

“I hope the car wdll not be moved from here during the 
night,” remarked Albert. 

“It will be easy for us to jump out if we find that to be 
the case. But what difference would it make to us if we 
were carried to another town? One place is as good as an- 
other to us.” 

“But it would be better for us not to be found here; and 
the door might be locked, and we could not get out.” 

“We will not borrow trouble; we have enough without 
borrowing any.” 

With their weary heads upon their straw-pillows, they 
tried to compose themselves to slumber ; but it was not easily 
won. Anxious thoughts persisted in coming, and they could 
not drive them away. But at length weariness of body over- 
came the workings of their minds, and they slept; a restless, 
unrefreshing sleep. 


CHAPTER III. 

The Minister and His Wife. 

About four o’clock in the morning a locomotive was 
shifted, and the noise and smoke wakened them. They rose 
and looked out of the door. The iron horse was being pre- 
pared for its daily work. There was no prospect of more 
sleep. 

“Let us hurry out,” said xHbert anxiously. 

They leaped to the ground, and walked past the lines of 
cars to the field beyond. In a fragrant meadow several 


22 — 


cows were lyin^’, beyond they saw a shed, to which they 
bent their steps. 

Day was dawning’, and the cows had begun to eat their 
breakfast of rich grass. When the boys reached the shed, 
they found it dry; but they felt the chill of the morning air, 
as they went to one corner of it and sat close together to 
keep warm. 

After a time the birds began to sing. The chirping of 
the sparrows reminded them of home. More distinct grew 
the sound of the locomotive; it was evidently pulling a 
freight-train. 

‘‘Theodore, are you asleep?” asked Albert. “I believe the 
train is coming this way; I wish we could creep in and go 
somewhere.” 

“Where could we go?” 

“Anywhere, so it is not in this miserable place.” 

“It would be the same world, Albert; only that here we 
liave the prospect of work.” 

“Only what tlie saloon-keeper told us, and I do not be- 
lieve liim.” 

“We can try to get work to-day, and if we don’t succeed, 
we can go to some other town.” 

They sat silent for some time and reflected. 

“I believe that those are milch cows,” said Theodore at 
length. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“Then some one will come to milk them and will see us; 
will we go?” 

“1 do not wish to be seen if we can help it; and it would 
be very easy for any one to see us, now that the sun is coming; 
we must go.” 

They arose and looked about them. Near at hand was 
a grove of trees, and they went there, the dew upon the 
thick grass wetting their feet and chilling them still more. 
'Idiey found some dry bushes and lay down upon them, glad 
that the trees overhead had protected their bed from the 
dews of the night. 


— 23 


After a time they saw a woman coming across the held 
carrying tin-pails, which she quickly hlled with rich milk. 

“Theodore, I would give much, if I had it, for a glass 
of that warm, fresh milk.” 

“So would I, and we must soon try to get some breakfast.” 

“Only not beg it, Theodore; I would rather go hungry.” 

“The kind-hearted landlady in the town would give us 
coffee and bread if we would ask her.” 

“Are you still thinking of that? I will not go there.” 

“Albert, we were honorably discharged.” 

“Yes, but from the penitentiary.” 

“Of course, we would feel better if we could hght our way 
through honorably; but we cannot live without the help of 
our fellow-men.” 

“That sounds all right, but our fellow-men will not help. 
If we humble ourselves to ask them, they will ridicule us, 
despise us, as if we were vermin; they will sniff' and curl 
up their noses at us.” 

“You are unjust, Albert. Last night when I could not 
sleep, it occurred to me why no good resulted from my efforts 
and yours to find a lodging-place. It is, I now know, because 
we did not accept the good opportunities God placed before us. 
That Christian landlady would have taken us on credit, but 
we would not go. The card-player directed us to the kind 
and helpful minister, who, no doubt, would have helped us; 
but we would not ask him. We have no right to blame our 
fellow-creatures.” 

“We would have been disgraced had we gone to them.” 

“You mean that, if we accept help from them, we must 
tell them all. Is that any disgrace? A Bible-passage came 
into my mind last night: Tie that covereth his sins shall not 
l)rosper; but whoso confesseth, and forsaketh them, shall 
have mercy.’ We want the mercy, but we do not wish to 
acknowledge our fault.” 

“Theodore,” said Albert, partly convinced, “we have asked 
God to forgive us; we have confessed to the judge and re- 
ceived our punishment; that is enough. Shall we be always 
confessing to the rabble as guilty as ourselves?” 


24 


“The widow is not of that class, Albert.” 

“I am not thinking of her.” 

“And the minister; surely he is not, or those fellows in 
the saloon would not have so much confidence in him.” 
“Yes, that looks reasonable.” 

“Then why not go to him? The widow might let our 
disgrace become known, but the minister will not. He is 
a man in whom we can trust. He has a care for souls, and 
hears many confessions which he buries in his own heart. 
Why should we not trust him when those miserable men in 
the saloon have confidence in him? And, Albert, I am con- 
vinced that without his help it will be impossible for us to 
get employment or lodging. We are so conscious of where 
we have been that we awaken distrust. We feel that we have 
the prison-taint upon us, and we show it in our appearance 
and actions.” 

“But how can the minister get work for us?” 

“If his influence reaches the saloons, why not factories 
and other workshops? If saloon-keepers regard his recom- 
mendation, certainly employers will respect it.” 

“That may all be true, Theodore; but if we tell him 
what we have done, and where we have been, he will de- 
spise us.” 

“No, he will not; in his pastoral work he has much to 
do with sinners and their transgressions. He may blame 
and censure us, but he will not despise us.” 

“I shall be so ashamed that I will not be able to look in 
his face, or speak a word.” 

“I feel the same about it, but I have confidence in the 
man, and will tell him all.” 

“Then you must go alone.” 

“He would think it strange that you do not report; you 
must go with me, Albert.” 

“I cannot go; the feeling of shame so completely over- 
whelms me that I could not face him.” 

The conversation was interrupted, for the milkmaid was 
crossing the meadow not far from them. The sun had now 
risen brightly over the edge of the woods, and its warm beams 


— 25 — 


were a veritable boon to the chilled travelers. People were 
now abroad, life and business had asserted themselves; the 
whistles of different factories sounded, calling the workmen 
to their daily toil; fowls crowed and cackled, and the birds 
in the woods sang, and hopped cheerily among the branches. 

“It is a beautiful morning,” remarked Theodore. “It bids 
us take new courage.” 

“But first there is a great whirlpool to cross, which makes 
my head swim to think of,” groaned Albert. 

“So you will really go with me to see the minister?” 
exclaimed Theodore, cheerfully. 

“I must swallow the pill, I suppose. But you will have 
to do the talking.” 

“Yes; now let us go,” and he sprang to his feet. 

“Not yet, Theodore. Give him time to eat his breakfast. 
Let us wait at least an hour.” 

Theodore lay down and waited patiently until they could 
tell by the sun that it was at least eight o’clock. Then both 
arose, brushed their clothing as well as they could, and set 
out for town. 

On their way they inquired the direction to the home of 
Eev. Edgar Gordon, and at length stood at the door of the 
parsonage. 

A green lawn surrounded it, and flowers bordered the path. 
The appearance of the place was cheerful and inviting. 
Theodore stepped forward, and lifting the old-time brass 
knocker, gave a timid rap, Albert, standing behind him, 
nervous and ashamed. 

An elderly lady, with a delicate lace-cap shading her gray 
hair, answered the knock, and smiled a friendly welcome 
upon them. 

“Yes, rny husband is in his study,” she replied to Theo- 
dore’s inquiry. “Come in, go up stairs, and enter the glass- 
door to the left.” 

They went in silence up the stairway, Albert feeling as if 
on the way to execution. His mind was bewildered, his 
thoughts confused, and his heart beat painfully. 

Theodore’s timid knock upon the study-door was answered 


— 26 


by a cordial invitation to come in, but to Albert it sounded 
ominous of defeat and humiliation; and he trembled visibly 
as he stepped in behind his friend. 

A gray-haired gentleman, tall, spare, dignified in manner, 
yet cheerful, arose from his creaky revolving chair, and 
came toward them, holding out his hand with a friendly smile. 

“Good morning! good morning!” he said, cordially. 
“A beautiful morning, isn’t it? Be seated.” 

“If I judge rightly,” he continued, resuming his chair, 
and leaning back in it, “we have never met before; you do 
not live in our town?” 

“No,” they both answered, and Theodore continued tim- 
idly, “we came some distance ; ' our parents live in the 
country, near the town of Fairview. An unfortunate circum- 
stance brought us here.” 

Pastor Gordon drew the tassel of his morning robe through 
his long, slender fingers, and waited to be informed as to 
the nature of the circumstance. 

“Yes, I am acquainted at Fairview, and know several 
])astors there, among them Rev. Raymond and Rev. Gray,” 
lie remarked, reflectively. 

“Our parents are Lutherans, and are members of 
Rev. Raymond’s church,” exclaimed Theodore, his eyes 
brightening. 

“Oh, indeed ! I am pleased to know that ; the two I men- 
tioned are my brethren in faith. We must shake hands,” 
and, rising, he clasped their cold hands warmly. “An ex- 
cellent bond of syni])athy is oneness of faith. We live six 
hundred miles apart, yet we meet to-day for the first time 
as friends and brethren.” 

lie leaned back in his revolving chair, and looked at the 
“brethren” expectantly. 

They cast their eyes downward, and Albert said to him- 
self, “He would not call us friends and brethren if he 
knew — ” 

“And what led you to come to me?” asked Rev. Gordon, 
breaking in upon their thoughts. 


— 27 — 


Both were silent, and in liis next remark he did what he 
could to aid them. 

“You are perhaps seeking- employment, and I am pleased 
that you come to me. It is frequently the case that young 
])eople out of work come here to seek it, and I am always glad 
when young ])eople from other places seek out a minister; 
it speaks well for them. Now tell me what you wish.” 

Albert did not raise his eyes, and Theodore braced himself 
and sjwke tremidously : — 

“We have had a singular experience, Mr. Gordon. You 
surmised correctly; we are looking for employment, and 
came to you for advice. We are entirely without means. 
But we are not begging, that is not our chief trouble; we 
liave a greater one; we came — ” and here he halted to 
recover himself, and cast a glance at his listener, “we have 
just been released from the penitentiary.” 

He trembled as he said it, and Albert felt as if he had 
received a blow. They feared that the minister would desire 
tliem to leave; instead, he sat quietly in his chair, his hands 
folded, and a look of pity and regret upon his face. 

“Tell me all about it,” he said, kindly, and his manner 
proved that he had not the least fear of them, nor did he 
look upon them with abhorrence. 

“We came with that intention,” said Theodore, “and 
will keep nothing back. Albert and I were schoolmates and 
old friends, and a little more than a year ago we tinislied at 
the high school in Fairview, and our fathers agreed to our 
eager desire to go out into the world and look for employment. 
And we left our ])lain, but comfortable homes with that object 
in view. We had traveled several days and enjoyed our 
varied ex])eriences, when one evening a man joined us on the 
street of a small town, and asked if we wished to earn seven 
hundred dollars that evening. We were eager to hear in 
what way, and he told us to follow him to a neighboring- 
saloon and he would tell us. lie gave us each a glass of cold 
beer, which we drank gratefully, being warm, tired, and 
thirsty. In this, our first visit to a saloon, lay all the shame 
and misery which has befallen us. lie gave us more beer. 


— 28 


and we drank, and were then ready for the prize we were to 
win. A farmer who had sold cattle that day would stop at 
the saloon, w'e were to follow him, hold him up, and take 
from him the money. We were willing. We were stationed 
at a certain point, and when he came by us, we stopped the 
horse, jumped into the wagon, robbed him, and were invited 
back to the saloon, the farmer being too intoxicated to follow 
us, or to give the alarm. We were given more beer, and, in 
turn, were robbed not only of the farmer’s money, but of our 
own small allowance and our package of clothing. We were 
arrested and confessed; for we repented of the shameful 
deed as soon as the effect of the beer wore off. We were 
sentenced to the penitentiary for two years; but because of 
our good conduct we were pardoned at the expiration of 
one year, and the kind warden gave us enough money to bring 
us here. 

“He sent for us yesterday afternoon, and told us we were 
free and at liberty to go; and with the money he put into 
our hands he gave us good advice, which we intend to follow\ 
We have constantly regretted the shameful deed, and took 
our punishment willingly, for we deserved it. How’ we wish 
to live honest, upright lives, and fled here, where no one 
knows us. We know that all beginnings are hard, especially 
so with those who have the brand of shame upon them. We 
do not believe that our disgrace is known here, but we know 
that it will be hard to get employment unless some one speaks 
for us; so we have come to you, and have told you all. 
Advise us what to do, or censure us; we deserve it.” 

“Why should I censure you?” said the minister; “you 
acknowledge the wdckedness of the deed; you know that you 
sinned not only against your neighbor by robbing him of 
his goods, but against your heavenly Father, and Ilis dear 
Son, our Savior.” 

“Yes, we know it.” 

“And you have, as you have said, constantly regretted it, 
and asked God’s forgiveness.” 

“Yes, we have indeed.” 


— 29 — 


^‘Now that you repent and wish to do right, why should 
I censure you?” 

lie arose from his chair and came to them. “No, I cannot, 
will not censure you, but there is something I will do. On 
my knees I will thank God that two sheep that were lost 
have been found. I can well see what this confession has 
cost you. I know what hindrances Satan laid in your path 
to thwart j’^ou. There was the fear of disgrace, the shame, 
to battle with, the old Adam, personal pride, one’s own 
obstinacy, to reduce to meekness. But, thank God, you have 
done this ! These are battles that one cannot fight in his 
own strength, but only with the help of the Holy Spirit, 
and the Holy Spirit dwells only in a heart that believes. 
Yes, I will say this to you, God has forgiven you; the sin is 
washed away in the blood of the Lamb. He has made you 
strong enough to overcome all hindrances, and will give you 
further courage and strength to be victorious over other 
disappointments and reverses which come to every one in 
this life.” 

“We thank you, pastor,” said Theodore, who was deeply 
touched, as was Albert, and the heavy weight upon their 
hearts was lightened. 

“Do not thank me, but thank our dear Savior, who fol- 
lowed you by His grace into the prison-cell, and I will thank 
Him that I have had this joy. Yes, one can indeed realize 
what His Word can do. Now you must tell me more, and 
first of all what you have neglected to tell me — your names.’^ 

“I am Theodore Summers, and my friend is Albert 
Stiller.” 

“Summers and Stiller; have you ever heard anything 
of the farmer from whom you took the money ?” 

“Nothing. We only know that the man who stole it from 
us was forced to give it back to the owner. He tempted us 
to steal it for him, and we heard on trial that his name was 
Detwood.” 

“Now, another point, are your parents still living?” 

“Yes.” 

“And have you written to them and told them all ?” 


— 30 — 


“No, Rev. Gordon,” replied Theodore, reddening; “that 
is one of our troubles. Our parents know nothing of our 
deed, nor of our imprisonment, nor of our being set free. 
We could not summon courage to write to them from our 
prison, nor since we have been set free. We have pious, God- 
fearing parents, and we could not tell them.” 

“I can well understand it,” agreed the minister. “You 
think your parents would turn gray with shame and grief, 
and so you kept it from them. Is that not the case ?” 

“Yes, we intended to wait until we had earned enough 
money to visit our homes and tell our parents all; but now 
we can’t go; we have no money. They have not heard from 
us for a year ; they may think we are dead” ; and Theodore’s 
eyes tilled with tears. 

“It is the old story, the old story. They leave their 
parents and go out into the world; then do some evil deed, 
and are ashamed to go back. Why ? Because they fear their 
parents’ anger and grief ; because they wish to shun being 
witness of that grief when the parents are told of their mis- 
conduct. Satan makes repentance heavier to them than it 
really is, and makes them loathe to confess a misdeed. Why 
should you have more confidence in others than in your own 
parents ? There are no persons in the world who would be 
more glad to welcome and forgive a repentant son than would 
his God-fearing parents. Truly, it gives them pain; but that 
is overbalanced by the joy of knowing that their lost son 
lias returned. Now, my boys, you must first pray, ‘Father, 
I have sinned against heaven and against Thee.’ Then let 
there be no excuse, no delay; God will prosper the endeavor. 
You must see for yourselves that as soon as possible your 
parents must be told all.” 

“Oh, Rev. Gordon,” exclaimed Albert, “my mother is 
in delicate health; if she were told of my having been in the 
penitentiary, it would cause her — her — ” 

“Death,” finished the pastor; “but if she were told of 
the repentance and of the forgiveness, over which the angels 
rejoice, what then? And that is what you must tell her; 
be assured that, if she is ill, it will help her to recover. The 


31 


rest she can be told later. No, no; make no objections; the 
affair will then be settled; and thank God that you have 
parents to whom you can tell it.” 

“It will be very hard,” said Theodore. 

“Hard it surely is; but there is a way to lighten the 
burden. Go into a quiet place, kneel down, and pray, ‘Dear 
Heavenly Father, it is hard for me to write to my beloved 
parents, and tell them my evil deeds; lighten the task for 
me,’ and you will find that it will be lightened. But you need 
a place .to lodge, and you have no money to pay for it. 
T thought I understood you to say so?” 

“Yes, Bev. Gordon,” said Theodore ; and he told him what 
the red-faced card-player had told him. 

“Not there, not there,” responded the old minister; “that 
is no place for those who wish to mend their lives. A home- 
like Christian boarding-house is what is needed for you. 
Wait, and I will write a note.” 

He wrote a few lines, signed his name, addressed the note, 
and gave it to Theodore. 

“Take this,” he said, “and call at the address given here. 
Any one can direct you there. Give the note to Mrs. Sheldon, 
the lady of the house. She is a widow and supports herself 
and her daughter by keeping a boarding-house. She, as 
a rule, has only young people who need motherly care, and 
parents are glad to place their sons and daughters with her 
while they are attending school, or learning some business. 
And now another matter; you wish employment, perhaps in 
a factory?” 

“Yes, anywhere, Mr. Gordon; we will do any work that 
will secure us a living.” 

“That is right; I will see what I can do to help you. 
Sometimes I do not succeed; but usually, I am glad to say, 
I do. And now, have you had breakfast?” 

The shrinking, sensitive manner of the two was sufficient 
answer to the question. 

“Mrs. Sheldon’s family will have finished breakfast,” he 
continued, and going to the head of the stairway, he called, 
“Mother !” 


— 32 — 


The door below opened, and the same pleasant voice that 
had greeted the strangers asked, “What do you wish. Father?” 

“Please set the coffee-pot on the stove. I will take a little 
more breakfast.” 

“Certainly,” was the reply. The good pastor’s wife knew 
•the ways of her husband. 

Then he stepped back into the study, and entertained his 
guests in friendly conversation, giving good advice, and 
speaking comforting words, until he heard a gentle loiock 
on the stairs. 

“Yes,” he responded, and turning to his proteges, he said, 
“Come’ now; we will go downstairs.” 

The table was in the kitchen, and at the head of it sat 
]\Irs. Gordon, smiling a welcome to her unexpected guests. 

“Mother,” said Kev. Gordon, “here are two dear boys who 
will take breakfast with us. This one is Theodore Summers, 
the other Albert Stiller; they are from the neighborhood of 
Fairview, and their parents are members of Rev. Raymond’s 
church. They have come here to get employment. They will 
be our guests this morning, and then they will go to the 
boarding-house of good Mrs. Sheldon. Now, please be 
seated,” he concluded, turning to the guests. 

They sat down bashfully. The minister asked a blessing 
upon the meal; his wife poured the coffee, and supplied the 
plates of the visitors liberally. 

“Now, mother,” said her husband, when he finished his 
half cup of coffee, “I will get my hat and cane, and take 
a short walk.” 

“This morning?” she asked in surprise. 

“Now, take your time and enjoy your breakfast,” he said, 
kindly, “and fare’well. I will make a call this morning, and 
you may be gone when I return. I will not forget you, and 
will try to see you often.” 

He nodded a pleasant farewell to them and went out. 

Mrs. Gordon kept up a kindly conversation while they ate, 
and although they felt bashful and miserably constrained, — 
for it had been more than a year since they had sat with 


— 33 


friends at a homo table, — yet it was sweet and pleasant to 
listen to her cheerful conversation. 

‘‘Mrs. Sheldon is a noble Christian woman,” she said, 
“and treats her boarders as though they were sons and daugh- 
ters. She has a son, but he is a soldier, and has not been 
home for three years. For love of that son the heart of 
]\Irs. Sheldon warms to^vard all young people far from their 
homes, and they find a tender mother in her. You will have 
an excellent home there.” 

When the meal was finished, they rose from the table, gave 
her hearty thanks for her kindness, and left the parsonage. 

“She does not know about us,” said Albert, “except that 
we wish employment. I Avonder if the minister has gone to 
find a place for us.” 

“I hope so; I can never forget his kindness to us. He 
know’s how poor sinners feel.” 

“Yes, mother would say he is truly a man of God. You 
cannot imagine, Theodore, hoAv much lighter my heart is 
since Ave met him. Oh, hoAv glad I am that Ave came to 
see him !” 


CHAPTER IV. 

They Find a Home. 

Rev. Gordon Avalked briskly along, in his hand a hickory- 
cane, Avithout which he seldom appeared on the street. 

The town had not many thousand inhabitants, and having 
lived in it many years, he was Avell known. People, including 
men of the Avorld, Avith Avhom he had no business communi- 
cation, esteemed and honored him. 

As he Avent doAvn the street,, he Avas greeted by old and 
young, and returned their salutations Avith a smile and 
pleasant Avord. No one avoided him, but, instead, felt his 
presence a stay and comfort. 

He had Avalked a feAV squares, Avhen he saAv a small boy 
upon the street, and halting, he called: “Frederick, my boy, 

come here!” 

Shadow of a Crime. 


3 


— 34 — 


Frederick ran across the street, and stood looking up 
in his face. 

^‘Is your brother Charles at home?” 

“iSTo, sir; he is at work in the chair-factory.” 

“Very good; and where are you going?” 

“To market, to get meat for our dinner.” 

“Then don’t let me keep you any longer; no doubt, your 
mother expects you back quickly. Always obey her, and 
never play with bad boys.” 

Kev. Gordon continued his walk until, having passed the 
dwellings, he went through a side-street, past a lumber-yard, 
then diagonally across it, and passed a ‘large factory-building 
in which machinery clattered and rumbled. He left the 
factory to the right, and went to a small annex of the 
building, on the door of which was the word “Office.” 

He i>assed in. Before the table sat a dark-haired, 
pleasant-looking man, who arose and welcomed him cordially. 

“Do you need any more workmen, Mr. Phillips?” asked 
the visitor. 

“If need be for employment, we could take one or two 
more.” 

“I know of two who have come some distance in search 
of employment. They seem willing to work, and I will be 
glad if you will make a place for them.” 

“Are they steady, worthy boys ?” 

“Thej^ appear so ; they have made a good impression upon 
me. Of course, we cannot see into their hearts, but I believe 
that it is their earnest wish to work.” 

“Send them here, and I shall see what I can do for them. 
If all is satisfactory between us, they can go to work to- 
morrow morning.” 

“Thanlv you for your kindness; and now another thing. 
I would like to speak to Charles Steele; where can I find 
him ?” 

“Over in the fifth division; but j'ou could not find your 
way through the wheels and belts. I will send a guide 
with you.” 


35 — 


He stepped to the door, whistled through his thumbs, 
beckoned to a workman, and stepped back to his desk. 

‘‘Good morning’, Mr. Walters,” said Rev. Gordon, when 
the man appeared. “I did not know you worked here.” 

The workman touched his hat, nodded and smiled, and 
then turned to the manager, and received the order to con- 
duct the visitor through the factory. Wheels and belts were 
moving rapidly, and the way was dangerous to one not ac- 
customed to making his way among them. Each workman 
stood by his own machine for special work, and pieces of 
wood went through different machines, or ran on saws or 
lathes, to be made into parts of a chair or table, as the case 
» might be. 

In one department these pieces were juit together, and 
it was interesting to Rev. Gordon to see how accurately they 
fitted together. Chairs were made in all designs and patterns, 
then were forwarded to another department to be polished. 
It required many hands to make even a common kitchen- 
chair, and the time for each part was only a few minutes. 

Charles Steele stood in front of the machine which was 
making chair-legs, and in less than ten seconds a chair-leg 
with grooves passed through. His work required his whole 
attention, and he had scarcely time to greet the pastor, who 
went close to him in order to make his voice heard. 

“Charles, I have engaged places here for two young men, 
and they will come to work in the morning.” 

Charles nodded in token that he heard and understood, 
but did not take his eyes from his work. 

“They are strangers here,” continued his visitor, “came 
from a distant part of the country ; and having no acquaint- 
ances here, I hope that you and your companions will receive 
them kindly.” 

“We will,” nodded Charles. 

Then came further information : “They are to board with 
Widow Sheldon, and you will be doing me a favor to call 
there early to-morrow morning and bring them here.” 

The machine now ran empty for a moment, and Charles 
turned to his visitor. 


— 36 — 


^^Where will they work?” he asked. 

‘‘I don’t know; they are beginners.” 

“Then they will be on the ground floor. Priestly works 
there, and I will speak to him. He will stand by them with 
advice and help”; and he turned again to the machine which 
was sending through grooved legs. 

“Thank you, Charles; I am sure they will And a good 
friend in you. They are sad and discouraged. You are 
president of the Young People’s Society; speak to your 
members, and ask them to visit the boys and make them 
welcome.” 

Charles nodded, and with the parting words, “Farewell 
my boy,” the minister left the factory and went over to 
Hrs. Sheldon’s boarding-house. 

It was not on a business street, but on one leading from 
one of the thoroughfares of the town, and was the picture 
of homely comfort, with its long porches, shade-trees, and 
a front yard fragrant with old-time flowers, and at the back 
a big garden where fruits and vegetables were grown. 

Everything was in keeping. The substantial old-time fur- 
niture, the comfortable beds, the abundant, well-cooked food, 
the perfect cleanliness, the atmosphere of peace and good will 
which reigned there, made it a home indeed, presided over 
by a motherly, kind-hearted Christian woman, who was striv- 
ing in her humble walk in life to be helpful to those about her. 

It was to this home that Theodore had gone the evening 
before, and by his sudden departure prevented her from 
taking him and Albert as boarders. 

Her conscience was troubled in regard to the circum- 
stance. She remembered that many persons were so consti- 
tuted that they could not command words when wishing to 
enter into an agreement, and thought he might be one of 
that kind. His timid manner, his boyish appearance, his 
sad eyes, could not be forgotten. Where was he now? 

“Yo, Ida,” she said to her daughter that morning, “I can- 
not get the thought of his look out of my mind; and he 
said the other one was at the depot, tired and hungry. Per- 
haps he is sick now, and with no money, and no place to go.” 


— 37 — 


^‘But he did not say that the other was sick, and what 
you sent him would keep him from being hungry for a time.” 
“I hope so; but if he is sick, I would not forgive myself 
as long as I live. Just think, Ida, suppose our William 
should be wandering with other soldiers, and should go to 
a house hungry and tired, and they would not take him in, 
and he became sick — ” 

“Oh, mama, do not worry.” 

“But, Ida, you are young; it does not come home to you 
as it does to me. I cannot forget his dark eyes, beautiful, 
but with such a look of sadness. O Ida, it may be that some 
mother is grieving oVer her wandering boy, and hoping some 
one would take him in; and I, a mother with a wandering 
son, had the chance and let it pass by !” 

Thus she went about, her household duties, her heart 
troubled in regard to the fate of the two boys. 

She had just finished making pies and custards for the 
midday meal, when there came a knock at the kitchen-door. 

“Ida, child,” she said, “it is Bev. Gordon. I saw him as 
he passed the window. Come, dear, and open the door for 
him.” 

“Good morning to both,” said the visitor, cheerily, “and 
excuse me for coming to the kitchen, but I knew that I w’ould 
find you here at this time of day, and time with me, as with 
you, is pressing. I am on my way to visit the sick,” 

“I was sure of that, or that you were doing something 
equally important. Take a chair, and let Ida take your hat 
and cane.” 

“No, I cannot stop a moment longer than necessary to 
tell you why I came; nor must I hinder you when I know 
that your dinner must be ready exactly at twelve o’clock 
noon. I see that you have good pies ready for the oven, and 
am glad you have plenty, for I came to ask you if you could 
take two new guests at dinner.” 

“Certainly I will, when you come yourself to recommend 
them. Who are they?” 

“Two young men, I must say, boys; they are to work in 
the chair-factoi-y. They are out of money, but I will be 


— 38 — 


responsible for their board. They were at the parsonage 
this morning, and I had a talk with them. Their home is 
in Fairview, where they have Christian parents. They are 
timid, and we will have to treat them with consideration, 
i^ow I think you understand me.” 

“Xo, pastor, I must say that I do not understand you. 
They have Christian parents, yet must go far from home to 
seek work? If my William had not gone as a soldier, he could 
have stayed here and found plenty of work.” 

“Ilm — ^yes, you are right, ]\trs. Sheldon. But every heart 
has a chord which thrills at a touch of strange hands, and 
these boys are no exception; and where this chord is, only 
the merciful God and theSe boys need to know. I do not 
believe that they are willingly remaining from home, but 
this assurance I can give you, that they are striving to do 
their best. They believe God’s promises, and are trying to 
be faithful Christians. Therefore it is our duty to help them 
all we can.” 

“Yes, quite true, you have told us that often enough from 
the pulpit to remember it, and I for one will do what I can. 
Send the boys here, and what a mother can do for her own 
children I will do for them. I know that many a boy has in 
some way or other made a mistake before he gained experi- 
ence, and we must help them not to do this again. This is 
what every Christian should do, and if the parents of these 
boys have not done this, but have driven them out into the 
world, then — ” 

“The parents are not to blame,” rejoined the minister, 
quickly; “at least so far as I know, and I know very little,” 
he added, in order to preclude more awkward questions. 
“We will ask no questions of them, but will only look upon 
the dear boys as they are now, — dear blood-bought souls, 
whom Satan may try with all his power to bring into the 
mire and bonds of sin; and we will do our best to thwart 
him. In order to win them we must draw them with the 
bonds of love.” 

“This shall be done, so far as is in my power. And now 
please excuse me while I put the pies in the oven. Ida, child. 


— 39 — 


you can pare the potatoes, and get the other vegetables in 
readiness, ^yith these two new boarders, we will have nine; 
and that means more preparation. But there is one question 
I would like to ask you, Rev. Gordon: IIow do these young 
men look? Is one of them dark-haired, and with sad, but 
beautiful brown eyes?” 

“Yes, one is just as you describe; the other is a blond 
and wears glasses.” 

“Then they are the very ones; Ida, dear, do you hear? 
It is the dark-haired stranger who came here last evening.” 

She was so impressed by this certainty that she forgot 
that the pie was in her hand, and the oven door open ready 
to receive it. But Ida came to the rescue, and put the pies 
in the oven. 

“Yes, Rev. Gordon, I have been much depressed believing 
that I did not treat him as I would wish my boy to be treated, 
and now I am happy to know that he is coming. It is no 
wonder that 3 "Ou look surprised, and I will tell you the whole 
story <5f his coming here last evening.” 

This she did, but added, reflectively, “But yet I cannot 
but think there is something wrong, for he did not tell me 
where he was the whole year that he did not see his parents. 
Xow, pastor, we cannot but think it strange if a boy does 
not visit his parents a whole year, and does not seem anxious 
to speak of them.” 

The minister was discomfited by this disclosure of Theo- 
dore. lie felt that he had told more than was necessary; 
but as he had done so, he must put the best face upon the 
matter consistent with the truth. 

“These boys were, so situated that going home was im- 
possible, Yrs. Sheldon,” he said, after a pause. “Your son 
does not come home more than once in three years, yet you 
do not consider that there is anything wrong about it.” 

This answer satisfied her. “Certainly,” she said; “yes,, 
you are right; we do not always know how people are sit- 
uated. But what I must know is that they are coming, and 
that they will soon be here.” 

“Yes, and now I must not keep you any longer. Remem- 


— 40 


ber, the bonds of love must be about these young people. 
Farewell !” 

Before ]\lrs. Sheldon could reply, they heard the tinkle 
of the door-bell. 

“They have come, Ida. Go to the door and invite them in. 
I am glad I made plenty of pies, and that they are in the 
oven. I — ” 

“Farewell!” again said the minister, and he hastened 
away. 

“Good-bye ! Come around and see us again,” called 
]\rrs. Sheldon, although the door had already closed behind 
him. “Oh, he has gone just as suddenly as he came. Yes, 
now I must — ” 

She brushed her hand hastily over her white apron, set 
her lace-cap straight, rolled down the sleeves, covering her 
plump, white arms, and hurried to the reception-room. 

By the hall-door stood Theodore and Albert, waiting with 
embarrassment, while Ida read the note written by the min- 
ister, which Theodore had given her. 

“Now you have come,” she said cordially, as she shook 
hands with Theodore. “You are very welcome. You went 
away last evening before I had said what I intended to say, 
or at least what I afterward wished I had said, and I have 
worried about you. But we will let that pass; you are here, 
and I am glad to see you. This is your friend, of whom you 
spoke?” she concluded, glancing at his companion, 

“Yes, my friend, Albert Stiller,” he replied in a low tone. 

“Albert Stiller,” she echoed kindly; “and what is your 
name ?” 

“Theodore Summers.” 

“Summers is a good name; one of my early friends was 
named Summers. No doubt, there are many of that name 
in the world. From what place did you come? Oh, yes, 
I remember that Mr. Gordon said you came from Fairview, 
which is a long distance from here.” 

“Here is a note from the pastor,” said Ida, “I have read it.” 

“So? What is in it? Oh, yes, I know what it is. You can 


— 41 — 


put it aside, Ida. I must go back to see that my pies are not 
scorching.” 

‘‘^Yould you like to have a room?” asked Ida. 

“We would like to, but we have no money,” replied Theo- 
dore, flushing vividly. 

“The minister has provided for that; and to-morrow you 
are to go to work in the chair-factory.” 

“Has he been here already?” exclaimed both, their eyes 
brightening with pleasure that they were to have employment. 

“Yes; he left just as you rang the bell; he has engaged 
places ’for you at the factory. He is so kind and helpful.” 

“Indeed he is,” agreed Mrs. Sheldon, who had heard the 
remark as she returned to the room; “he is good to every- 
body, giving both help and money. Sometimes, in return, he 
receives ingratitude and ill-will. But he keeps on doing 
good deeds. How I would ask you where your trunks or 
satchels are.” 

“We have none.” 

“None! Why this is — I merely mean — and then about 
your rooms — ” 

“They wish only one,” said Ida. 

“Oh, that is better; Ida, you can call Henry to go with 
them and show them the rooms.” 

“Henry is our servant,” continued Mrs. Sheldon; “he is 
not very efficient, but he is obedient and willing. Here he is. 
Now, Henry, listen,” and she gave him directions in regard 
to the location of the room. 

Henry nodded, and led the way up the stairway, while 
Mrs. Sheldon and Ida quickly went to the kitchen. 


CHAPTER V. 

Unexpected Visitors. 

It was an agreeable company of young people that 
gathered about the dinner-table of Mrs. Sheldon. A warm, 
refreshing bath and the brushing of clothes made them feel 
more like their old selves, and look so genteel as to be no 


42 — 


discredit to the house. They dreaded the meeting with the 
young people, but the ordeal was not as painful as they had 
feared. For as soon as the introductions were over, and 
]\Irs. Sheldon had asked a blessing, each one of the seven 
boarders became interested in the wholesome food before 
them, and when it was finished, they separated, hurriedly 
going to their several duties. 

This was a relief to Theodore and Albert, and as they 
were to go to the factory early the next morning, they utilized 
the afternoon by taking a walk through the town and beyond 
it to the woods and fields, grateful to be by themselves, away 
from people who might look curiously upon their cropped 
hair, and wonder at their timid manner. 

They returned in time to go to their room, where they 
awaited the ringing of the su])per-bell. Feeling refreshed 
and rested by their stroll through the woods, they were in 
a better frame of mind. But the moment they took their 
seats at the table with the others, they felt embarrassed and 
uncomfortable, although they appreciated the cheery con- 
versation of ]\rrs. Sheldon and her guests. 

As soon as the meal was finished, all passed into the 
reception-room to pass an hour in music and chat, as was 
their custom, before going to their rooms to prepare their 
lessons for the following day. 

Most of the seven were musicians, and one of them, 
Richard Sahlen, was really a fine pianist. 

He and the other three boys, Lionel Rice, Eugene Roberts, 
and Frank Karsner, were students at the college, while 
Adelaide Newcombe, Tillie Levering, and Anna Ellery were 
pupils in the ladies’ seminary. Anna was an orphan, and 
having no near relatives, she made her home with INfrs. Shel- 
don, and regarded her as a mother. 

Ida was but a little older than the three girls, and her 
education would have enabled her to accept a position in 
a school or as bookkeeper in a business house; but she was 
happy and contented to remain with her mother. She was 
a gentle, sweet-tempered soul, and was esteemed and honored 


43 


by the young x^eople, who looked upon her as a friend and 
counselor. 

Henry was a humble, but not unimx)ortant member of the 
household, his helpfulness extending from cellar to attic, 
and the well-kept grounds and garden. The only drawback 
to his usefulness was his forgetfulness. He had been given 
a home by iMr. and Idrs. Sheldon in their early married life. 
He was then a poor, abandoned, weak-minded orphan. He 
had never been willing to leave them. 

The moment that Theodore and Albert finished their 
supi)er they went to their room. The young people were 
friendly, cordial, agreeable, and well-bred; like the friends 
they had known in their own homes, but so very different 
from their associates of the past year. 

The fear of possible discovery was a weight upon their 
hearts. They were among people who had nothing to conceal 
and could speak openly; they could jest with each other and 
enter into discussions. But for them it seemed impossible. 
They could not respond to the kindly efforts to engage them 
in conversation, and were glad when they could leave the 
table, and be together in their own rom. There they felt less 
under constraint. 

“Oh, Theodore, can we endure the punishment of being 
at the table at every meal?” was Albert’s first remark. 

“We will get accustomed to being among agreeable people 
by and by, Albert. In the other place we ate what was given 
us, and paid no heed to our neighbors.” 

“I wish we two could have our meals by ourselves, 
Theodore.” 

“But we could not; and it is better for us that we are in 
a family-circle and among kind, courteous people.” 

“But, Theodore, I tell you now, that as soon as we make 
some money, we want to look for another boarding-house.” 
“You are an ungrateful boy, Albert! Just remember 
where we tried to find board last evening, and where we 
lodged last night, and be ashamed of your complaining.” 
“You must try to understand me, Theodore. You ought 
to know that, while I am truly thankful for what I have. 


44 


yet it is far from pleasant to be among people who have a clear 
record, and can hold up their lieads, knowing that they have 
no stain upon their characters. Even if they do not suspect 
us, they must look upon us as dull, ill-bred people, who have 
never been in good society. The truth is that I feel mean and 
debased ; they are too good for us ; that is it, — too good.” 
“But being so friendly with us is proof that they know 
notliing against us. Rev. Gordon has not betrayed our con- 
fidence, and what troubles us is the knowledge of our deed, 
and we must overcome it.” 

“I never can,” replied Albert. 

“Would you be happier among rogues?” 

“Oh, no ; but I feel that our prospects for life are ruined. 
What were the words that Mr. Gordon gave us? My head 
is so dulled that I can think of nothing but my misery. 
Repeat them to me, Theodore.” 

“He said that Satan threw many hindrances in our way, 
among them the fear of disgrace. He also said that these 
hindrances must be overcome through the strength of faith, — 
and your hindrance is despair of God’s help.” 

“Yes, I wish I had your courage and hope.” 

“You can have it if you will only strive earnestly for it.” 
“I will tiy, Theodore; I did intend to be calm and com- 
posed at the table this evening, but when I saw that young 
Sahlen looking earnestly at me, it shot through my mind 
that he is wondering at my short hair ; and I lost all my firm- 
ness and courage. When my hair has grown again, I will 
not feel so embarrassed.” 

“Our hair should not attract attention; many boys and 
young men have their hair cropped. I am sure that no one 
here has suspected anything.” 

“Do not be too sure of it,” siglied his friend. 

“Albert, listen to me, please. I feel our disgrace as keenly 
as any one can, but I am trying to overcome the feeling. That 
evil deed rests only with me and my God. The farmer has 
lost nothing by it, our Father in heaven, for His Son’s sake, 
has forgiven us, and we have suffered our punishment at 
the hands of the law. God has blotted out our transgression. 


— 45 — 


and it exists no longer. Why should I be disbelieving ? 
Would it not be rank injustice to God, who is so gracious? 
No, I will cheerfully take Him at His word, and you must 
do the same.” 

“I wish I could ; but think wliat we should do if it be- 
comes known here.” 

^Gt will not; the minister is the only one that knows it, 
and it is safe with him. But supposing it should become 
known, then I would accept it and bear it. It is a great 
blessing that we are in a Christian home and among Chris- 
tian people. They would not heartlessly condemn us.” 

Albert made no reply; he could not be convinced. He 
put his hands under his head as he rested upon their bed, and 
closed his eyes ; and Theodore sat by the table thinking- 
over the events of the day. 

In the parlor below Bichard Sahlen had finished a noc- 
turne, and urgent voices seemed to be soliciting some favorite 
air, with voice accompaniment. He ran his fingers over the 
keys in an improvised prelude, then a sweet soprano voice 
was heard in Mendelssohn’s air from Elijah, “Be still and 
wait upon God, and He will give thee thy heart’s desire.” 

Deep reverence lay in the voice, yet with it was prayerful 
hope and peaceful assurance that was like oil upon troubled 
waters to the two sad and lonely listeners. 

They had indeed listened with eager attention and ap- 
preciation. Words and music were balsam to their wounded 
souls, and as the words, “Wait, wait upon Him,” were slowly 
sung, this precious truth seemed to strike home to them, and 
when with exultant accent the air ended, Albert rose, and, 
with tears of feeling in his eyes, clasped the hand of Theodore. 

“That was beautiful, beautiful!” he said. “I have heard 
the oratorio of Elijah several times, but never has it given 
me such comfort. I feel stronger and better, more like I did 
before that terrible thing happened. I wonder who it was 
that sang it so beautifully.” 

“One of the four girls; perhaps Mrs. Sheldon’s daughter. 
You know they incidentally mentioned her singing at the 
tea-taV)le.” 


— 46 


They had heard the hall-door opened in response to the 
bell, and the voices of callers, asking for some one, but took 
no heed to it, until footsteps were heard upon the stairs, 
then along the corridor, and they listened nervously as they 
halted at their door. 

“This is their room,” they heard Henry say; then came 
a knock, and the two involuntarily crept closer together, and 
Albert trembled as Theodore arose, went to the door, and 
opened it. 

Before it stood two young men, apparently but little older 
than themselves, but well-grown. Their clothing was neat 
and trim, and they held their white straw-hats in their hands. 

“Good evening!” said one of them. “Are we right? We 
called to see two young men of whom our minister. Rev. Gor- 
don, told us, and said you are to be employed in the chair- 
factory with us; and he asked me to come to see you. This 
friend with me is Howard Priestly; he works in the depart- 
ment where you will be placed. I am Charles Steele.” 

“Oh,” exclaimed Theodore, gladly, his face brightening 
with pleasure; “come in, we are more than glad to see you.” 

He gave the visitors the two chairs, and Albert and he 
took places on the edge of the bed. Charles now told the 
object of their coming that evening. It was to aid them by 
telling them all he could of the work in the factory, and to 
promise to call for them in the morning and to go with them. 

This business finished, he talked of general matters, of 
home and friends, and without being obtrusive, won their 
confidence and respect. 

“We will be glad to visit you often, and hope you will 
come to see us in our homes. The young folks here have 
social times. We meet quite often.” 

“I am sure all enjoy these meetings,” said Theodore. 
He was pleased with Charles Steele; he seemed like the 
associates of his early boyhood in his own home. He admired- 
Priestly, too, although he was not so cheery and chatty as 
Steele. 

“I am so glad you came to see us,” said Albert, feeling 
more cheered than he thought possible when they came up 


— 47 — 


to their room. e have scarcely been here twenty-four 
hours, and know several young people. There are seven in 
this house, and you two make nine.” 

‘^Don’t you find it so everywhere?” asked Charles, well 
pleased. 

“No; once we were several weeks in a large city, and no 
one took any notice of us, or bothered himself in any way 
about us.” 

“The young people did not know of your being there. 
\ on would soon have had them flocking around you, had you 
gone to some church and joined some of the Young People’s 
Societies, and made the minister your friend.” 

“We did not think of that.” 

“No; and now you have the chance to think of it in a new 
place. We need you with us, and you will feel more at home 
when you get acquainted. We have a large society of young 
people in our church, and Priestly and I are among the 
charter members. Whenever Rev. Gordon hears of young 
people who are strangers here, he tells us to inform our visit- 
ing committee. They seek them out, and help them in every 
way possible.” 

“Oh, now we understand your visit,” said Theodore; 
“you came as members of the visiting committee.” 

“You have guessed correctly,” smiled young Priestly. 
“Our friend Steele is president of our society, that is, the 
young men’s division of it; the ladies’ division has its own 
president and officers. Their president is Miss Ida Sheldon, 
the daughter of the lady who keeps this boarding-house. Our 
secretary is Richard Sahlen,” continued young Priestly, “and 
Miss Anna Ellery is secretary of the ladies’ part of the 
society, and she is very efficient.” 

The new arrivals were deeply interested in all this. The 
two members of the visiting committee seemed like old 
friends. They felt themselves now in navigable water, and 
the course seemed clearer. 

Charles Steele further informed them that the members 
met every two weeks. Debates were in order, also an essay 
or story, prepared and read by some member appointed at 


— 48 — 


the preceding meeting, and harmless entertainments were 
suggested. He concluded his account by inviting them to 
become members of the society, and in the meantime to come 
to the next meeting as guests. 

“We will be pleased to come,” replied both warmly. 

Then the visitors rose to go, saying, “Good-bye, until 
morning.” 

“Wait a moment and I will go part of the way with you,” 
said Theodore, as he reached for his hat. “Albert, will 
you go?” 

Stiller arose quickl5% took his hat, and followed. The 
reception-room was empty when they passed it, the young 
people having gone to their rooms to study. 

It was a quiet, beautiful evening, the moon shining so 
brightly that the electric lights were scarcely needed. On 
the streets people were laughing and talking as they walked 
along, each interested in his own company. The four young 
men were scarcely noticed. 

It was the same street upon which Theodore and Albert 
had walked the evening before, — but how ditferent ! Then 
they had looked longingly at the open doors of the restaurants, 
hungry and miserable, now they felt neither hunger nor 
anxiety in regard to shelter, nor were they alone and forsaken. 

At the street-corner near Steele’s home they separated, 
and Theodore and Albert returned, arm in arm, chatting 
over the hopeful outlook given them by the visiting members 
of the Young People’s Society. These young men were 
friendly and companionable, and, like the young people in 
the cheerful, homelike Sheldon boarding-house, treated them 
as belonging to their set. 

In passing a street-corner, they saw the large sign on an 
inn, “Boarding by the day or week,” and Theodore halted. 

“See, Albert,” he said, “there is the place where the man 
said his table was always set. We will bear it in mind, and 
avoid it; for it is a saloon as well as an inn.” 

“Compare its fragrance with that of the Sheldon home.” 

“Let us move on,” was the reply. 

They had gone but a few steps, when a man who had 


— 49 


evidently come from there, in passing them, stumbled and 
jostled against Albert. 

‘‘Hello !” he said, as he recovered his footing; and pushing 
his hat back from his forehead, he took a steady look at the 
young men. 

“What,” he exclaimed, “do my eyes deceive me? Isn’t 
this Stiller, and the other one Summers ? Hello, boys I 
I thought you were still behind the bars — ” 

“You are mistaken,” said Theodore, and drew Albert 

4 

quickly from under the lamp-light; then hurried on without 
looking back. 

As soon as they reached their room, Albert threw himself, 
exhausted, upon the bed. 

“It was he, Theodore, it was he. Didn’t you recognize 
him ?” 

“Yes,” sighed his friend, sinking upon a chair, his heart 
beating anxiously. 

“How, then, could you say he was mistaken?” 

“He was mistaken in thinking we were yet prisoners. 
I would not recognize him, — the villain that led us into 
committing that miserable deed. We were put in the peni- 
tentiary, and he is free to go about, intoxicated, as usual.” 

“Xow we are lost, hopelessly ruined,” moaned Stiller. 
“Nothing will silence the tongue of that terrible man. Come, 
let us fly; let us not stay an hour longer, but go now”; and 
he looked excitedly toward the door. 

“Now, Albert, be quiet,” said Theodore, in a subdued 
tone, but earnestly. “Do you want to bo arrested again? 
You are scarcely out of one trouble, and would rush into 
another.” 

“Theodore, please be reasonable, and see for yourself the 
danger we are in.” 

“I am reasonable, and therefore allow myself to be com- 
posed in order to think over matters. Here we are; we have 
a good home, friendly, kind-hearted people about us, and 
a prospect of work. Will ^ve give all this up because a rogue 
whom we may never meet again recognized us?” 

“He will ruin us, Theodore.” 

Shadow of a Crime. 


4 


50 


“We will wait and see.” 

Stiller would have argued further, but Summers, once 
for all, declared he would not take to flight, at least not 
then. Seeing that Theodore could not be moved from the 
stand he had taken, Albert lay down upon the bed, dreading 
that he would not be able to close his eyes. But in a few 
minutes he was asleep. Theodore, in the mean time, sat long 
by the table, l)uried in anxious thought. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The Debating Society. 

Two weeks had passed, and Theodore and Albert had 
become quite contented in their new home. 

They had written to their parents, telling them the whole 
story of their troubles, and had asked forgiveness for the 
anxiety their long absence must have caused. 

In return they received the most affectionate of replies, 
the parents of both expressing their joy that their dear sons 
were alive and well. They prayed for the full forgiveness 
of their offense against their heavenly Father, sent their 
heartfelt thanks to the good pastor and Mrs. Sheldon, who had 
befriended them when they stood in so much need of faithful 
friends, and ended with the hope that they would soon be 
able to pay a visit home. 

These letters put new life and energy into the hearts of 
Theodore and Albert. Now that their parents knew their 
troubles, and it did not crush them to the earth, the whole 
world seemed brighter, and life more worth living. 

They had good jjositions in the factory, were kindly 
treated by their employer, were respected and esteemed in 
the Sheldon boarding-house, and last, but not least, had 
neither seen nor heard of the man who had caused them so 
much anxiety on the evening of the visit of the members 
of the committee. 

They had met others of the Young People’s Society, and 
wei-e well pleased with them. They were feeling well enough 


51 


acquainted with the eight young people under the home roof 
to enjoy passing the social hour of each evening in the 
parlor. 

So it was with feelings akin to pleasure that they looked 
forward to the meeting of the society, especially as Miss Anna 
Ellery was to read an original story, and Erank Karsner 
and Richard Sahlen were to be leaders and opponents in 
the debate. Karsner was to have the affirmative and Sahlen 
the negative side of the question. 

The rest of the young people in the Sheldon home had 
tried to draw from the two combatants the subject upon which 
they were to debate, but with smiles and nods they kept it 
to themselves. They wanted it to be new to all. 

Charles Steele had promised to call for the two guests, 
whom he hoped to secure as members. True to his promise, 
he came. The whole party of young people set out for the 
hall, which was the second story of a neighboring school- 
building. ^ 

Theodore and Albert were introduced to the members 
present when they arrived. The conversation was cordial 
and unrestrained. The pastor came in and greeted the young 
people in his usual friendly, kindly manner. He was wel- 
comed by them as one whose presence put no bar upon inno- 
cent amusement. He never allowed himself to miss a meeting 
of the society when it was possible for him to attend. 

The time of opening having arrived, all joined in singing. 
Richard Sahlen was at the piano. The minutes of the last 
meeting were then read. The roll was called, programs given 
out, and guests, of whom there were many, were welcomed. 

The literary part of the entertainment was announced 
by the chairman, Charles Steele, who invited Miss Anna 
Ellery to the platform to read the story of the evening. 

“Any one who can sing so splendidly from the oratorio 
of Elijah can read to be heard,” said Albert to himself as 
Anna, manuscript in hand, took her place. Those who had 
heard her sing and read knew they were not to be dis- 
appointed when she gave the title, in her full, clear, yet 
sweet tones. 


— 52 — 


The Mountaineer’s Story. 

“Skip along, my good Larry; the March day is drawing 
to a close, the storm grows more violent, and we have found 
no shelter, but skip along, nw pet.” 

The cheery voice of his master put new life into the 
pony. He stepped at a brisker pace over fallen branches, 
rocks, briars, sod, and dead leaves. 

“We have traveled many miles in company since we left 
the railway the first day of our journey, my good Lariy,” 
continued the young man as he bent low over the pony’s 
mane to avoid a limb which hung down, “but this is our first 
experience at being lost in the forest of this Virginia moun- 
tain region. Make your way to a city of refuge, Larry; 
I give you free rein.” 

The intelligent creature seemed to comprehend, and 
bravely breasted the cutting wind and sleety rain, which 
was fast coating the foliage with ice. 

^Weaving around stumps and fallen trees, crossing brooks 
which upon sweet summer days would charm lovers of na- 
ture with their gentle rippling, but were now angry, roaring 
torrents, he kept on his way. 

“I see a light, Larry,” exclaimed his master, after some 
distance had been covered in silence, save the whistling of 
the wind among the tree-tops and the creaking of branches 
overhead, “a dim light, it is true, but, thank God, a light !” 
Taking the rein in his chilled hand, he guided the pony to 
a small window of a weather-beaten cabin, and, halting before 
it, glanced in. 

There was no occupant of the one room except a man 
who sat by a log-fire upon the broad hearth, his head bent 
low upon the hand which rested upon the arm of his chair. 

The wild wind and the dashing sleet upon the cabin 
])revented the sound of Larr;N’’s hoofs from being heard, but 
when the little animal gave a neigh of satisfaction, the man, 
a tall, slender, intellectual-looking person, raised his head, 
glanced toward the window, then arose, went to the door, 
and opened it. 

“Come in, stranger,” he said, in a kind, but subdued 


53 — 


tone; ‘‘this is a terrible storm in which to be in a mountain 
forest, and dangerous, because of falling limbs.” 

“Thank you heartily for your kindness, but can I have 
shelter for my horse?” 

“Yes, and plenty of feed. I have a horse, but there is 
more than enough room for two in the shed I have built at 
the back of the cabin.” 

As soon as the traveler alighted, he led the way to the 
shed. It was a roomy place, stacked around and roofed with 
corn-fodder. Within stood a quiet old horse that looked 
without surprise at the unexpected guest. 

The heart of the young man swelled with gratitude at 
seeing the comfortable place in which his faithful companion 
would rest, and when food and drink had been given, he 
followed his host into the cabin. As he entered, he could 
scarcely forbear expressing surprise at its appearance. 

Judging by the outside, the cabin was similar to those 
inhabited by all mountaineers far from the line of travel, 
but within it had the appointments of an up-to-date village 
home. 

A pretty Brussels carpet covered the floor. In the center 
there was a table with a handsomely embroidered cover, 
a student’s lamp, and many well-bound books, the works of 
standard authors. On one side of the room there was a wide 
lounge with cover of crimson rep, and fancy pillows at either 
end. On the opposite side was a writing-desk, and beside it 
a sideboard, with shining glassware upon it. rnder the one 
window was a small parlor-organ. Upon the rough, but snow- 
white walls were copies of noted paintings and small pieces 
of statuary, and other bric-a-brac upon the rough mantel- 
piece showed the touch of a refined feminine hand in the 
home. 

“Take a seat by the fire, stranger,” said his host, pointing 
to a rocking-chair on one side of the hearth, while he took 
its counterpart on the other; “I was about to make a cup 
of coffee, and will be glad to have you share it.” 

“I thank you heartily,” responded the chilled traveler, 
“and consider it due to you to be told the name of the one 


\ 


54 


you are entertaining so liosi)itably. ]\Iy name is Elmer Her- 
bert. I am a teaeher in a. high school in Baltimore, and my 
liealth requiring rest and change, I was advised to take 
a horseback journey through the mountains of Virginia. 
]\ly home is in a village just outside our city, with my 
parents, a sister, and two younger brothers. ]\Iy pony, Larry, 
lias been my pet all his life, and understands much that 
I say to him. I have enjoyed the trip thoroughly, for until 
this afternoon the weather has been all that one could wish. 
In two more days my holiday will be over, and 1 shall return 
to Baltimore and my school.” 

‘‘^ly name is ]Mark ITolderman,” rejoined his host. “I am 
glad to have your company, and hope you can remain those 
two days with me, for I am very, very lonely,” and his voice 
trembled with suppressed emotion. 

lie arose, went out the cabin-door, and entered another 
which led to a rudely constructed shed-kitchen, and soon 
Herbert inhaled the odors of broiling ham, corn bread, and 
coffee. 

He obeyed promptly when summoned to the meal, and 
did full justice to its merits. When they had finished, with 
})ermission of his host he returned to the comfortable chair 
by the glowing hearth. 

“I have had satisfactory evidence that you can cook,” 
he remarked when Mr. Holderman came in and resumed his 
place; “I don’t think I ever enjoyed a meal more than I did 
this one.” 

‘‘Yes, necessity is a teacher, and sometimes a severe one. 
I never did anything of this kind until the past two months, 
for I, too, was a teacher for many years. Your society has 
already benefited me, for it has been long since I have eaten 
a meal with relish.” 

Until midnight the young man and the one past middle 
age talked by the light of the hickory-log tire, while the storm 
raged outside, and ]\Ir. Holderman told his simple life-story 
to an attentive and sympathetic listener. 

“I was born a mountaineer, the only child of my parents. 


— in this cabin, it and the land around it having belonged 
to iny father, and to his father before him, who preempted it. 

“]\Fy happy boyhood was i)assed in roaming over these 
mountains for flowers in spring, fruits in summer, and for 
nuts and game in winter; for these mountains furnish all 
things that suit boy nature, and I love them better than any 
of which I have read or heard, 

“As I grew older, I began to wish for book-learning, as 
we called it, and one day, while in the mountain store, five 
miles from here, I saw in a stray newspaper the picture of 
an industrial school near a town sixty miles away. The 
storekee])er, who could read, seeing my interest in it, told 
me that any one could have instruction there for several 
years bj" helping in the work of the institution. 

“Thrilling with delight, I hurried home to tell my i)arents, 
who, though loath to part from me, were as eager as I to 
have me try to get an education ; and a few days later, with 
every jienny in my pocket of the small sum my father had 
saved from the sale of skins of squirrels and other animals, 
with my meager wardrobe under my arm, and my luncheon 
of corn bread and bacon, I set out for school, a tall, awkward 
boy of sixteen. I walked the sixty miles. 

“I was weary, but happy, when I reached the place. I told 
my story to the principal, and was received as a pni)il. 

“From that hour a new world was opened to me; the 
world of books, of companionship, and the intelligent culti- 
vation of land; and I will say that, while my parents and 
the free life of these monntains were dearer to me than ever, 
yet the years I passed in the institution as pupil and teacher 
were as happy as love for learning and for teachers and 
pupils could make them. 

“There was in the school as pupil, and later as teacher, 
a young girl, an orphan without kindred. We fell in love 
with each other, and looked forward to having a home of our 
own. With this ha])py prospect in view we saved every penny 
we could of our salaries; yet T was past thirty, and she nearly 
that age, before we felt it safe to give up our positions. 

“We were married at the school and went to our home in 


56 — 


a near-by village, having bought out a small general store 
and dwelling of a man who was tired of the business. 

^‘For a year or more we were supremely happy; but 
neither of us knew anything of business. We had paid too 
much for the place, which was a poor stand for trade, and 
for ten long years we had a hard struggle to subsist. 

“During these years our two sweet children died, and 
the health of my dear wife failed; but she bore all her trials 
with Christian patience and fortitude, keeping on with her 
household and church duties with untiring fidelity. 

“But I was thoroughly discouraged, and when the time 
came that we could keep the place no longer, we gave up to 
our creditors, and were grateful that we could leave without 
owing a penny. 

“My dear parents had died many years ago, and this cabin 
had long been unoccupied. I longed for these mountains; 
for, once a mountaineer, always a mountaineer; and my 
loved wife agreed that there was nothing left for us to do 
but to come here. 

“Fortunately, we could retain our horse and market- 
wagon, and one beautiful morning last May we bade good-bye 
to our village home and the institution in sight of it, and 
set out to travel the sixty miles, calling it our wedding-trip. 
We reached here on the evening of the second day. 

“We brought in the wagon the articles of furniture you 
see — with the exception of the lounge — and a few things 
in the room above, and again we were in a home of our own. 

“]My only near neighbor is an elderly colored man — Uncle 
Jared — and his wife, Judy, living in their cabin on the 
mountainside more than a mile away, and whom I knew 
in boyhood as trustworthy in every way. 

“In passing us the evening we arrived. Uncle Jared halted 
to have a chat, and the next morning he and Judy came and 
offered their services, which we gladly accepted. They stayed 
until evening, and while Judy put in i^lace our simple 
belongings, Jared helped me build shelters for my horse, 
poultry, and the wagon. Later, he prepared the garden and 
lot for planting, dug a storage place for our abundant crop 


of winter vegetables, and helped me build the shed-kitchen 
out of the timbers which we hauled from an old fallen-down 
cabin on the mountainside. I can never forget his and 
Judy’s goodness to me and my wife. 

“One month ago to-day my wife died, and I am alone, 
save for her grave under the shade in summer, and shelter 
in winter, of one of our great oak trees, which she loved. 

“Several of our whole-hearted mountaineers, who had 
known my parents, came a distance of many miles to help 
during that sad time. Again I had to thank Jared, through 
whose care they gained knowledge of my trouble. I have 
been so stunned by my dear wife’s loss and by the subsequent 
loneliness that I cannot even think coherently nor plan what 
I must do to properly fill out the time allotted me on this 
earth. I have lived on throngh days which seemed endless, 
in the dazed state of one stranded, and utterly despairing.” 

The mountaineer’s story was ended, and when the two 
parted for the night, they felt as though they had known 
each other for years. 

]Mr. Holderman went to his low room overhead, and his 
guest was given possession of the wide, home-made lounge 
with its comfortable mattress and warm coverings. 

The storm had subsided; all was quiet without and 
within, and though weary, Herbert lay awake for some time, 
watching the smoldering logs upon the hearth, and thinking 
over what he had heard. He had been trained in a home 
where unselfishness and helpfulness to others was the rule 
of life, and he wondered if there were any ways in which 
he could be of use to the lonely, discouraged man, whom he 
believed to be almost, if not entirely, penniless. 

Then, as if whispered to him by a good angel, the thought 
came to him: “He has been a teacher, he loves the work, 
is an intelligent, educated, and godly man; why not open 
a Christian school in his cabin for the mountain children?” 

Then his thoughts ran upon ways and means for accom- 
plishing this, and in planning these, he dropped asleep, and 
did not wake until the beams of the rising sun shone through 


58 


the window, and the odors of broiling l)acon and coffee were 
pleasantly perceptible. 

lie arose and glanced out upon the glistening branches, 
which were already losing their brilliant armor. lie then 
dressed and went out to the bench under a great tree, which 
shaded a spring of clear water. In nature’s primeval dressing- 
room he found the toilet articles of which his entertainer had 
spoken the evening before, enjoyed the laving of hands and 
face while listening to the song of birds overhead, and the 
crowing and cackling of fowls in the poultry-yard, and was 
refreshed for the welcome breakfast to which he was sum- 
moned. 

“I could not make much change from our hill of fare of 
last evening,” remarked ]\Ir. Ilolderman, “except by adding 
a plate of hot fried eggs, which go very well with corn bread, 
bacon, and coffee.” 

“Xothing you could provide would suit me better,” replied 
his guest, as tliey took their places at the table. lie proved 
his assertion, much to the gratification of ^Ir. Ilolderman, 
who enjoyed it in the company of his cheery visitor. 

•^‘Excuse me for asking something which i)erhaps should 
not concern me,” said Elmer, when he. and ]\Ir. Ilolderman 
returned to their chairs by the lire; “hut have you ever con- 
sidered the question of a school for mountain children here 
in your home?” 

“A school!” echoed the mountaineer, looking in what 
might almost be called bewilderment into the face of his 
guest. “Why, my dear young friend, you have no idea how 
far apart the cabins of these mountaineers are. How could 
their children get to and from school?” 

“To get their children to school is the parents’ part of 

the contract; and Jared and Judy coidd tell you of the 

children within walking distance.” 

/ 

“It is true that it has been more than twenty-five years 
since I roamed over these mountains,” remarked ]\Ir. Holder- 
man, reflectively; “and since returning to them, I have not 
been out of sight of my cabin. Jared has always gone to 
the mountain store to exchange for groceries such produce 


\ 


— 59 — 


as I had to send; but I doubt if in this secluded place there 
are any more cabins than in my boyhood days.” 

“Hut supposing’ there are children, do you not believe with 
me that their parents would hail with delight this opportunity 
for their children?” 

“Yes,” agreed the moimtaineei-, while his eyes brightened, 
and a more cheery ring was in his voice; “if they are like 
my parents, they would leave no means untried to get them 
here.” 

An hour or two later the two mounted their horses and 
went to the cabin of Jared and Judy to consult. ^ 

Jared, who knew every family for miles around, gave 
explicit directions as to their locality. He assured them that 
there were ])lenty of children who would think it but play 
to walk that distance to school, adding, “Some ob dem white 
folks done own a mule.” 

]Mr. Holderman learned from him that, during his years 
of absence, sons of mountaineers had grown to manhood, had 
cleared patches of forest land, built cabins, and had children 
old enough to go to school. 

Herbert solicited the pleasure of riding to the cabins and 
engaging pupils, which was gladly granted, for the conference 
had not ended there; instead, plans developed which went 
far beyond those of his midnight vigil. 

For, should the school become a certainty, the present 
kitchen would serve as a school-room; Herbert promising, 
on his return to Baltimore, to forward to the mountain store 
as a gift to the school a full stock of all things needed for 
pupils who, large or small, old or young, would be in the first 
grade. 

^^loreover, it was decided, to the delight of Jared and 
Judy, that, with the help of another gentleman of color, their 
cabin would be taken down, its timbers hauled to Mr. Holder- 
man’s land and put together again, adjoining the kitchen 
of his cabin, and thus, in a manner, they would have their 
home with him, Jared as general utility man and Judy as 
cook and housekeeper. 

It is doubtful if Elmer Herbert ever enjoyed anything 


— 60 — 


more than traveling over the mountains, visiting cabins, and 
witnessing the genuine delight of parents and children when 
told the good news. It pleased him also to note that the 
first thought of the parents, after it was fully realized, was 
of ways and means to recompense Mr. Holderman for his 
services. 

lie returned in the evening, weary and hungry, but happy, 
with the names of twenty-five boys and girls who would be 
on hand on the first morning of April, then but a few days 
off. He found that Jared’s cabin was already demolished, 
and the timbers waiting on the spot to be again set up as 
a home, and he and Judy happily busy in the Holderman 
kitchen. 

From the storage Jared had dug up the fine vegetables 
needed, and in the oven were two fine fat fowls, roasted to 
a turn. Judy had made the richest of dressing, which with 
coffee and tea-biscuit awaited his coming. It was a tempting 
meal. 

Mr. Holderman was resting comfortably by the parlor- 
fire, looking ten years younger than at the same hour the 
evening before, when through sleet and wind Herbert had 
looked through the parlor window. 

After they had done full justice to Judy’s supper, they 
again talked by the parlor fire until late. Among many other 
plans it was decided that a half hour of each day should be 
devoted to religious instruction, and as ]\Ir. Holderman was 
a good musician, they would be taught the hymns, to be ac- 
companied by the little organ. 

“I wish you could stay until the opening of my school,” 
said Mr. Holderman, when, the next morning, Herbert was 
about to set out upon his return to Baltimore ; “but you must 
go, and I pray that God’s blessing may rest upon you. You 
never can know what your visit has been to me. You have 
saved me from utter despair.” 

* * * 

Amid perfect silence Anna Ellery had read the moun- 
taineer’s story, and when she finished, there was hearty 
applause; but no one there appreciated it more than did 


— 61 


Albert Stiller, for the tones of her voice were thrilling him 
like the remembrance of some happy dream, when Charles 
Steele arose and announced the theme of the debate : 

“Besolved, That prisons are neaessary for the protection 
of citizens.” 

Summers and Stiller, who had the places of honor, were 
startled at hearing this. They had never thought to ask 
Steele the subject of the debate; had they known it, nothing 
would have induced them to come. 

Karsner was the first to speak, as he was on the affirma- 
tive side; Sahlen followed on the negative. Two other mem- 
bers had their opinion, and the discussion was declared open 
for any one who wished to take part. 

Rev. Gordon felt a thrill of anxious solicitude for the 
two who must listen, or create surprise by leaving the room, 
lie had not the least idea that this was the subject the young 
people had chosen for the evening. He was really distressed 
for the two boys, but felt that he must make the best of the 
situation. 

One of the members remarked that in his opinion prisons 
were a necessary evil, and he did not imagine that there 
would be one dissenting voice. 

Immediately ten hands were raised, and as many tongues 
proclaimed vehement opposition. 

Steele took the names of all who were willing to take 
part in the debate, and sprightly comments were exchanged. 

The affirmative side of the question had the floor, and 
Karsner arose to state his points: — 

“1. Prisons, by which is meant penitentiaries, jails, houses 
of correction, and other places of confinement, are necessary 
because there are law-breakers on all sides, who must be 
punished, and this can best be done in this way. 

“2. The fear of punishment keeps many evil-doers from 
crime; they dread the humiliation. 

“3. So long as the sentence holds the evil-doers, citizens 
are not in danger, which in itself is a great comfort and 
blessing. 

“4. In prisons, criminals learn useful trades, and are 


— 62 — 


thus enabled, when free, to earn their living, and thus become 
useful members of the community. It has been proved that 
many law-breakers have become better men after having 
served a term in prison.. 

“5. In conclusion, places of imprisonment are necessary 
for the protection of the people.” 

The negative side of the question now had the floor. 

Sahlen was in his element, when in parliamentary combat. 
He said : — 

“1. People are demoralized by imprisonment; wjiere one 
person is made better, ten are made worse. 

“2. The number of evil-doers is increasing all the time, 
which proves that iirisons are no objects of dread to law- 
breakers. 

“3. The maintenance of prisons costs a startling sum. 
Purthermore, many innocent persons have been imprisoned: 
for instance, Paul.” 

Sahlen spoke on each point at considerable length and 
dropped upon his chair when he finished, shaking his finger 
at Karsner with a comical look of exultation. The pastor 
laughed heartily; the discussion had been a great pleasure 
to him except for his sympathy for the two boys. 

Karsner was not at all dismayed, although the helpers 
he had expected did not come to liis assistance, but left him 
to fight the battle alone. Ilis face beamed with the certainty 
of victory, and when the jury brought in the decision tliat 
“Prisons are necessary for the protection of citizens,” it 
was his turn to nod triumphantly to Sahlen. 

During the debate Theodore and Albert were miserably 
uncomfortable; they were cold and hot by turns, and pro- 
nounced upon themselves the verdict : “Woe unto us if our 
past life becomes known to these people! They will have no 
respect or friendship for us.” 

No one, however, seemed to notice their discomfort. xVll 
were friendly as before, and the pastor shook hands with them 
at parting, with fatlierly kindness. 

“How did you like our society?” asked Charles Steele, 
who walked with them as far as his own home. 


— 63 — 


“It appeared to be a very pleasant gathering,” replied 
Theodore. 

“It was conducted agreeably, and good order was niain- 
tained,” supplemented Stiller. 

“Tes, but it could have been better; what we need are 
older people of intelligence to join with us. How did you 
like the debate?” 

“It was well conducted on both sides,” responded Stiller. 

“And instructive,” added Theodore; “I wondered at the 
knowledge displayed by Karsner and Sahlen.” 

“They are two old combatants,” laughed Steele. “They 
are trained in argument, and know how to make it enter- 
taining. Unfortunately, they had no help to speak of, and 
the subject was a little too deep for them. They would do 
better on questions like these: ‘Which is more conducive 
to health, bicycle riding or skating?’ or, ‘Which is of more 
advantage to a country, railways or steamboats?’ On such 
subjects the dullest of them , could speak.” 

“How was it that for this evening you selected an un- 
accustomed theme ?” 

“The leaders, Karsner and Sahlen, selected it. What did 
you think of the verdict?” 

“I scarcely know,” replied Summers, slowly, and Stiller 
made no reply. 

“Think it over, and tell me later; and now another 
subject. Kext Wednesday afternoon is a holiday, and our 
society is going to Evergreen Lake. All the Sheldon guests 
will go. We will all go in an omnibus. I invite you now, 
and hope you will go with us.” 

“But we are not members; won’t we intrude?” 

“Certainly not; we will all be glad to have you; I am 
but voicing the wishes of the society in giving you the in- 
vitation.” 

“Then we will accept. The society is certainly kind.” 

“The omnibus will stop at your door, and take you all in. 
You may give me an answer to my question that day. Good- 
night ; here we part.” 


— 64 


CIIAPTEE VII. 

Excursion to Evergreen Lake. 

After Charles Steele had passed through the garden gate 
that led to his home, Theodore and Albert, both lost in 
thought, walked slowly toward the Sheldon boarding-house. 

“Will we go in now, Theodore?” asked Stiller, as they 
drew near and saw the others who had preceded them entering. 

“No, let us walk a little longer, and talk of the meeting 
this evening. Did you enjoy it?” 

“Only the reading of Miss Anna Ellery. I felt all the 
time that something would happen to embarrass us, and 
it came.” 

“But I am sure there was no design in it; and it is not 
likely that they will ever again have a subject like that.” 

“I hope not,” Stiller replied with a sigh. “But why did 
Karsner and Sahlen choose that subject?” 

“Good evening!” said a voice near them, and a man 
stepi)ed from the shadow of a house into the light made by 
an electric lainji. 

The two shrank together and stood in terrified silence. 

“You don’t seem to be very glad to see me,” continued the 
man as he stepped, apparently without design, in their path. 
“I am rejoiced to see you, for I have searched for you several 
days. Don’t you know me, or do you pretend not to 
know me ?” 

“You villain!” exclaimed Theodore, and would have 
passed him, but was prevented. 

“Oh, and so you do not know me? I thought so, as you 
did not respond to my greeting. Happy meeting, isn’t it? 
How is it that you come earlier than expected from Water- 
field? Burned out, or cut your way out?” 

“You base deceiver,” said Stiller, trembling in every limb, 
yet striving for composure. “Where we were is exactly wherd 
you should be; for you hatched the demon plot, and we were 
weak enough to fall into the trap you set for us; but that 
is all past.” 


65 — 


“But what would you say if the roguish trick had brought 
you luck?” asked the man with shameless effronteiy. 

“We thank God that it did not succeed,” replied Summers. 
“So you have become pious,” said the man, sneeringly. 
“I thought as much since I heard that you lodged with that 
pious old woman. Sorry you were not at home this evening 
to recommend me, or I might have secured lodgings there.” 
“What, have you been there?” they both asked anxiously. 
“Certainly, I came to visit you.” 

“How did you know that we were lodging there? Who 
told you?” 

“A friend of mine to whom you applied with empty 
pockets for board the first evening you came.” 

“Oh, do you mean that miserable saloon-keeper?” 

“Can I trust my ears ? Where were you for the past happy 
year, that you can speak in that way of a noble innkeeper?” 
“With all your other wickedness, are you also an infamous 
spy?” said Theodore. 

“When a person wishes to know anything, he simply 
asks. So I ask. Who is the idiot that the respectable widow 
has as helper in your boarding-place? He neither under- 
stands signs nor English. Is he the pious widow’s husband?” 
“^liserable slanderer!” cried Stiller, and aimed to strike 
him, but Theodore caught his hand, and prevented him from 
doing so. 

“No, Albert; do not lower yourself by striking him.” 
“That is very well thought of. Summers,” said the man 
in a mocking tone. “Had he struck me, a cry to the police 
would have put you both back behind the bars.” 

“You shall never have that pleasure again, sir; we are 
honest men.” 

“Ha, ha ! honest men ! That is a good joke ; for how long ? 
Why, until I tell the pious landlady the whole truth. I would 
have told her this evening, but the old witch w^as not at 
home.” 

“It was good luck for you,” answered Theodore. “Yes, 
good luck. You boast shamelessly about the police; but 
I advise you not to play with fire. A"ou know full well that 
Shadow of a Crime. o 


66 — 


the disgraceful thing we did was planned by you; and we 
know more than that about you. We advise you to hold 
your tongue.” 

“Why don’t you speak the word?” asked the man, drawing 
himself again into the shadow of the building with a taunting 
laugh. 

“Because w^e do not wish any one to know that we have 
any knowledge of one so despicable. But remember this: 
the time will come when respectable men will not scorn to 
overthrow such a dog, and the time will come for us.” 

“Do you expect to be considered respectable men?” 

“Yes; and we consider you a villain, who has been 
suh’ered too long to go free. Now understand me, and do not 
cross our path again. Come, Albert,” and he grasped his 
friend by the arm, and drew him away. 

Detwood turned sullenly from them, and went down the 
street without looking back. 

“How came he to lay in wait for us here?” said Albert, 
’excitedly. 

“Henry told him where we went, and what way we would 
come home. Do not worry, Albert; you are trembling.” 

“I cannot help it. I could scarcely control myself to keep 
my hands from him.” 

“It is well you mastered yourself. We must attract no 
notice by rashness. Come, let us walk several blocks. His 
words pierced me to the quick, but I can control my temper.” 

“I have an unhappy disposition, Theodore, but I cannot 
help it.” 

“But you are improving. Just think what we have en- 
dured since we were set free; our first meals at the table 
with strangers, this evening in the society, and the meetings 
on the street with Detwood. You would have sunk down in 
despair under these anxieties had I not helped you to see 
that what the pastor said is true to the letter; that God will 
give us strength to bear these trials.” 

“Yes, I wonder at myself that I can bear it.” 

“The key was put into our hands by Kev. Gordon. He 
bade us be of good courage, and said that our Savior had 


— 67 — 


made us strong enough to overcome hindrances, and would 
give us further strength to be victorious over disappoint- 
ments and trials.” 

They walked on silently for a little while, then returned 
to the Sheldon home, and found that the others had all 
returned, and were waiting for them. 

“You are late; we have been home nearly an hour,” said 
Karsner. 

“Yes, we took a little walk after the meeting,” said 
Theodore, taking a chair, Albert following his example. 

“There was a man called to see you while we were at the 
hall,” remarked Mrs. Sheldon. 

“To see us? Did he leave his name?” 

“Yes, he left it with Henry, who will tell you, if he has 
not forgotten it. Henry, come here!” 

He responded as quickly as he understood. He had been 
dozing in the kitchen. 

“What was the name of the man who called while we 
were out ?” she asked. 

Henry rubbed his hands and reflected. “Now let me 
see, — what was that name ?” 

Poor Henry! although he tried his best to recall the name 
of the person who had called, his memory failed him. 

“Popocatapetl,” laughingly suggested Sahlen. 

“No, there was no cat in it.” 

“Don’t suggest names to him, it only confuses him still 
more,” said Mrs. Sheldon. “Try and think. Henry, it is 
such a pity you cannot remember things.” 

“Sahlen, you are irrepressible,” exclaimed Karsner. “How 
can you try to be witty after suffering such a defeat in the 
debate this evening?” 

“Please remember that the lion in the fable was in fine 
spirits when the mouse set him free,” laughed Sahlen. 

“Little brother,” said Ida to the bewildered servant; “you 
cannot think of his name just now, but you can tell us whom 
he wished to see.” 

“Yes, that I know; he said, ^Are the two young gentlemen 
in the house ?’ ” and Henry nodded to Summers and Stiller. 


68 


“Did you tell him where we were?” asked Stiller, trying 
to speak in an indifferent tone, but failing signally in the 
attempt. 

“Yes, and I think — I think he went there.” 

“Did he say that he would see us again ?” asked Theodore. 

“Yes, he said he would speak to you again.” 

“But it could not be again when he had not the chance 
to speak once,” laughed Sahlen. 

This brought from Mrs. Sheldon a reproving glance, and 
Adelaide Newcomhe, who sat next to him, gave him a smart 
rap with her fan. 

“That was very good of him,” said Mother Sheldon. 
“Now, Henry, you can go to bed, you are sleepy. You have 
watched the house all evening and are tired.” 

The subject being disposed of, the usual service of prayer 
and a hymn followed. Then the little company separated 
for the night. 

Theodore and Albert took with them the comforting 
knowledge that so far Detwood had done them no harm, 
thanks to Henry’s poor memory. They hoped for the best. 

Wednesday afternoon came, and it being a holiday and 
a very warm day, all the people not compelled to be on the 
street were sitting singly or in groups on their porches or 
under their shade-trees. 

]\Irs. Sheldon sat in the shade of the porch which ran 
the whole length of the house, glad that her rooms were all 
in perfect order, and, with a palm-leaf fan in her hand, she 
could sit and rest. The young people had gone on an 
excursion to Evergreen Lake, and Henry was asleep in the 
kitchen. 

Just then there came up the street a rough-looking man, 
apparently between thirty and forty years of age. His face 
inspired no confidence, his appearance gave evidence of 
a depraved, dissolute life. 

“Another prodigal son,” thought Mrs. Sheldon, drawing 
nearer the door of the dwelling, as she saw that he was 
aiming for the gate. 

“Are you the mistress of this boarding-house?” he asked 


69 — 


in fluent speech and pleasant voice, “and is your name 
Sheldon 

“Yes, Sheldon is my name, and I keep this boarding- 
house.” 

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said in an 
ingratiating tone. “The minister told me that you conduct 
your house on Christian principles, so I came to ask if you 
will furnish me with room and board.” 

“Do you know our minister?” she asked, glancing at him 
with an incredulous look. 

“Yes ; I am a stranger in the town. I went to see him 
to-day, and he told me about you.” 

“That is strange; he always sends a line of recommen- 
dation, or comes himself when some one wishes to find board, 
and he approves of them. Did he send a line by you?” 

“Yo, he was too busy; but he said he would come here 
in the morning and see you about it.” 

“He ought to have taken time to write a short note,” she 
said, after a pause; “I do not know you.” 

“But he was too busy. I believe he was — yes, he was 
called to see a sick person, and had no time. Besides, I have 
money, and will pay in advance, so there will be no risk 
about it, and in the morning he will come.” 

Mrs. Sheldon sat silent and reflecting. Kev. Gordon had 
never sent her a boarder in that way; but the stranger had 
made his communication in such a straightforward manner 
that she feared she might do him injustice to doubt him. 
So she overcame her reluctance sufficiently to speak further 
in the matter. 

“What is your name?” she asked. 

“Alphonso Detwood; I came from Sheffield, where I was 
a member of Eev. Hartley’s church. My object in coming 
here was to get work in the chair-factory ; and this has been 
promised me.” 

“That is very good. Would you attend church here?” 
“Certainly, to go to church is my greatest pleasure.” 

She was not yet satisfied, but did not wish to doubt his 
word, although his appearance was against him. 


70 


do not receive people vdio go to saloons, theaters, or 
. dances,’’ she said. 

“You are wise in this, Mrs. Sheldon,” he said, earnestly. 
“In such places Satan rules, and only children of the Evil 
One could find pleasure there; the children of God, never.” 

He said this very earnestly and solemnly. But she must 
have one more proof. Had she really misjudged him? It 
must be so, for he gave the impression throughout of artless- 
ness and sincerity. Her examination, however, was not yet 
ended. 

“I have several young lady boarders; I do not allow any 
flirting among my young people. x\ll must act at all times 
within the bounds of the strictest propriety.” 

“And what jn’ofessing Christian would not assent to all 
you have said ?” he replied. 

“]\rornings and evenings we' have prayers; and a blessing 
is asked at every meal, and every one who is under my roof 
must unite with us in devotion and prayer.” 

“With joy,” he said eagerly; “it is for this very reason 
I wish to come to your house.” 

“Then you can come.” She arose and led the w^ay to the 
reception-room, and as a kindly house-mother, held open 
the screen-door for him to pass through. 

Slie w^ent to her secretary, and opened it, and while her 
back was toward him, Detwood took a searching glance of 
the room. Ilie door which led to the dining-room was draped 
by a portiere, but allowed him to get a view of the room. 
ITe took notice of the windows, the private stairway, and 
everything else that belonged to it. 

Being a iirudent manager, Mrs. Sheldon wished the con- 
tract in writing. Taking a blank from her secretary, she 
asked the new boarder to sign it. 

“You are truly a good business woman, and deserve credit 
for it,” he remarked as he cast his eyes over the paper. 
“Perhaps you have experienced trouble with some of your 
boarders ?” 

“Hot especially; I take only those who are honorable. 


71 


and expect to pay their debts; this contract is simply the 
rule of the house/’ 

‘‘Certainly I will sign it ; but you must excuse me if I ask 
you to let me see the room which you are to give me.” 

“Yes, you should see it first, of course. You have a right 
to demand that.” She called to Henry to take him upstairs. 
But Henry was fast asleep in the kitchen. 

“Excuse me a minute,” she said; “Henry has so many 
things to do, and gets so tired, that he drops asleep whenever 
he gets a chance.” 

She stepped to the kitchen, and Detwood, with the noise- 
less movements of a cat, went to the secretary and tried all 
the drawers. He found them locked, but with the exception 
of one of them, the keys were in their places. 

He stepped back to his place in time, and when she 
returned, he was looking innocently out of the window. 

“You can go up with Henry to see the room. Here, 
Henry, is the key,” she said, as she took it from her belt. 
“Now remember, Henry, number thirteen. Now go.” 

He made no move to obey, but stood and stared at the 
stranger with open mouth. 

“Henry, stop staring, and do as I bid you,” commanded 
]\lrs. Sheldon, sternly; but Henry did not stir. 

“What are you waiting for?” she asked. 

“He sees in me an acquaintance,” explained the villain, 
ingratiatingly, and turning to Mrs. Sheldon, he added, “I was 
here last evening, but you were all gone to the society meet- 
ing; and I suppose he forgot to tell you.” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” she answered, becoming better 
satisfied. “Plenry did not remember your name, and that is 
the reason I did not recognize you. Yes, now I understand; 
you wished to see Theodore and Albert.” 

“My main reason for calling was to see you about taking 
me in boarding. Summers and Stiller I have known for 
a long time; they are good friends of mine. When I heard 
they were boarding here, I wanted to meet them, and so 
I came.” 

“You will see them this evening, if you stay here. The 


— 72 — 


young people have gone to the lake, but will be home before 
dark.” 

That he was a good friend of her boys made her perfectly 
satisfied, for she had such a high opinion of them that she 
knew they would not make friends with any bad character. 
Moreover, the pastor had sent him. 

“I do not wish to lay so much stress on their friendship 
for me,” he said with humble modesty. 

‘‘Certainly; now that I know that you are a friend of 
Theodore and Albert, I am fully satisfied. Look at your room 
now, number thirteen. Henry, remember it is on the cor- 
ridor, opposite number twelve, which is Theodore and Albert’s 
room.” 

Henry conducted the new applicant up the front stairway 
to the corridor on the second floor, with numbered rooms on 
either side. 

The 'weak-minded guide was too much engaged in finding- 
number thirteen to notice the searching glances which Det- 
wood cast at the locked doors as he passed them. They were 
the glances of a thief. 

Henry found the door, unlocked it, and the man stepped 
in. A nice white bed, a table upon which was a lamp and 
a Bible, a washstand with toilet-set upon it, and a rack of 
towels above it, and two chairs, made up the furniture of 
the room. The floor was oiled, and strips of white matting 
lay before the table and bed. All was clean, comfortable, 
and homelike. Hetwood, however, paid but little attention 
to it. He nodded, stepped out, and Henry locked the door. 

“Can I look into that room?” he asked, signifying number 
twelve. 

“Certainly,” said the irresponsible Henry, and turned the 
knob, but the door remained closed. 

“It is locked,” he said. 

“You have a key in your hand; I am sure it will un- 
lock it.” 

Henry tried, but the door remained closed. 

“Infamous!” muttered the fellow. “Who sleeps there — 
and there ?” and he pointed to several doors ; but Henry could 


— 73 — 


not remember, and as they passed, Detwood walking behind 
his guide, he swiftly tried several doors, but found them 
all locked. 

“Do they all have their own keys, and lock their doors 
when they go out, and at night when they sleep 

The question struck Henry so forcibly that he stopped 
and stared at his companion, 

“I don’t know,” he stammered, and he told the truth; 
but something prompted him to look upon the man as one 
to be feared. 

They went downstairs, Henry still trembling. 

“I will take the room,” said Detwood to Mrs. Sheldon; 
“but before I sign the contract, I would like to ask you 
a question. I notice that all the doors are locked; is that 
necessary in this house?” 

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, in a surprised 
and resentful tone. 

“Mow, don’t look so startled. You are honest, I do not 
doubt for a moment; but how about your boarders?” 

“They, too, are honest,” she replied, somewhat excitedly. 
“What are you afraid of?” 

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said, raising his hand 
impressively. “I am not afraid; I only mean that I shall 
feel nervous, if every time I step out I must lock my door, 
feeling that, if I neglect it, my little bit of money will not 
be secure.” 

“It is not for that reason that my people lock their doors, 
but because I require it of them, that I may have no care 
of their belongings. All in the house are honest.” 

“Mo doubt you think so, good lady,” smiled he, with the 
air of one who had a much better knowledge of the world. 

“Mo, I am sure of it,” she said emphatically, forgetting 
all caution in her indignation at his insinuations. “I know 
that this is not their reason for locking their doors; for all 
my young people give me their money to keep it for them. 
Do you consider my house a den of thieves?” 

“Good Mrs. Sheldon, now listen to me.” 

“Mo, I will not listen, for I think I know what kind of 


74 — 


person you are. How did you know that all the doors were 
locked? You must have tried them.” 

“Mrs. Sheldon, you cannot know how sorry I am to have 
{^•iven expression to that thought; but coming to a strange 
place, it is natural that I should wish to know something 
about it. I have come in contact with so many bad men 
that I have become suspicious. Believe me, if I had all the 
money that has been stolen from me, I would have no need 
to work in a factory.” 

“No, I do not understand it. I have all my life had 
money, and never had any of it stolen. You must always 
have been among thieves and other evil-doers, or it could 
not have happened to you.” 

Detwood turned pale at this home-thrust. Her ability 
to strike such blows made him weaken. Pie must withdraw 
before becoming wholly vanquished. 

“Forgive me, Mrs. Sheldon,” he said, humbly. “You can- 
not know how sorry I am.” He looked ruefully down, as if 
deeply conscious of his error of judgment. 

She made no reply; and he continued, “Give me the pen, 
and I will sign the contract. I will pay you in advance for 
the room, and will take possession in the morning.” 

She had lost confidence in him, but gave him the pen 
and the blank. She took comfort in the thought that he would 
not be there until the next morning. 

In payment he laid a new twenty-dollar bill before her. 
She looked at it and then cast a mistrustful glance upon the 
giver, as if neither of them were genuine. 

Slie went to the secretary, and taking from the money- 
drawer a twenty-dollar bill, laid it beside the new one. They 
bore the same written characters upon them, so she laid 
them in the drawer and counted out the change due to the 
new boarder. 

He had looked at the drawer with covetous eyes, as if 
wishing to grasp all the contents; but when she turned, he 
was gazing with an innocent expression toward the street. 
But Plrs. Sheldon placed herself between him and the drawer. 
Had she suspected him? 


— 75 


AVlien she gave him the change, he was again the subdued, 
ingratiating person that he had been before. He bowed and 
stepped out, and when she looked out of the window, he was 
not to be seen. 

“Gone as if blown away,” she said to herself. “When 
Theodore and Albert come, I will ask about him, and if there 
is something wrong, I will give him his money back when he 
comes in the morning, and he may go.” 

She took up her fan, and was about to resume her chair 
outside, when Henry appeared. He seemed nervous and ex- 
cited, and was trembling, and twdsting his fingers. 

“What is the matter, Henry?” she asked in surprise; 
“what has frightened you? Has the dog bitten you again?” 

“Ho — o; up there — the man.” 

“What man?” 

“Head — Deadwood.” 

“Ho you mean Hetwood?” 

“Yes, up there he — he asked me if the doors were locked 
at night.” 

“Henry, you are dreaming,” cried the startled woman, 
feeling as if she had received a stab, and pressing her hand 
upon her heart. 

“Ho, he did; he asked me if the doors were locked at 
night.” 

“Then he is a — he is a — ” several expressive names hov- 
ered on her lips, but for the expression she chose the weakest 
— “an inquisitive man. Hid he ask anything else?” 

“Yes, he asked if he could go into number twelve, and 
asked me to try the key, but the door would not open,” said 
Henry, growing more composed now that the stranger was 
out of tlie house. 

She sank with a groan of dismay upon the sofa, and 
anxious tlioughts crowded her mind. Suppose this fellow 
was a thief and a burglar! He had gone through the house; 
lie had seen the money-drawer. But the pastor had sent him. 
Why should she doubt? 

“Henry,” she said, “we must find out whether he has told 


— 76 


the truth. Go to Rev. Gordon, and ask him if he sent this 
man here.” 

Henry got his hat and hurried to the door. “No, wait 
a minute, Henry. I will write a note.” 

She went to the secretary and hastily penned a few lines. 
She was so agitated that she could scarcely command her 
thoughts to express herself clearly. 

“There, take this and give it to the pastor. He will write 
something, which you must bring to me. Now make haste, 
and do not forget anything. Now, whom are you going 
to see?” 

“Rev. Gordon.” 

“What are you going for?” 

“To take this note.” 

“What then?” 

“Come home.” 

“Yes, and bring a note from the pastor.” 

“Right; now go, and come back as quickly as you can.” 
She returned to the porch to watch for his return. Calling 
to mind, as she sat there, the many times she had resolved 
not to trust a stranger, she went back, closed and locked the 
back doors and windows. 

In good time Henry returned, and with him a note from 
Rev. Gordon, saying that he knew of no one named Detwood, 
nor had he been to see any sick person that day, and was 
very sorry to hear of the deception. 

“All false ! The man is a fraud ! Oh, how his pious talk 
deceived me ! Henry, he is a rogue and a swindler. If I knew 
where he was, I would have him arrested. But no, he could 
not be arrested for telling lies, and that is all he has done. 
Henry, are you sure he took nothing while upstairs?” 

“No; I watched him.” 

“Then you can go back to the kitchen and sleep.” 

Henry obeyed, and a new thought came into the mind 
of Mother Sheldon. The man had seen where the money was 
kept; he might come back and rob the house. She arose, 
and, unlocking the secretary, took the money-drawer and 
secreted it in another very safe place. 


I 


— 77 — 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A Trying Experience. 

It was after eight o’clock that evening when the omnibus 
containing the young people rattled through the streets, and 
drew up to the door of the Sheldon home. Mother Sheldon, 
always glad to welcome them, being lonely without them, 
was more glad than usual that evening. 

Her welcome was hearty and sincere, and they greeted her 
with cheery voices. Henry received several kind greetings, 
which comforted him after the troubles of the afternoon. 

Mother Sheldon led the way to the good and substantial 
supper she had provided, and, while they ate, listened to the 
delights of their trip. The beautiful drive, the congenial 
company, the fine air, the refreshing shade, all had been 
delightful. Each had brought samples of many kinds of 
flowers as gifts to her. These graced the supper table. 

Music had added to the pleasure of the afternoon, and 
when Sahlen, after supper was finished, seated himself at 
the piano, they laughingly drove him away. They were tired 
of music this evening. 

They wished only to talk of their visit to the lake, and in 
listening to them, the anxieties of Mrs. Sheldon were put 
aside. After a while, however, she took the contract from 
the drawer, and placing it before Theodore, said, ^^Do you 
know this man?” 

Theodore glanced at the signature, then handed the paper 
to Albert, and both looked anxiously at Mrs. Sheldon. All 
present did not fail to notice that every evidence of pleasure 
had deserted them. 

^ AVas he here ?” asked Theodore, as he put the paper back 
in her hand. 

^^Yes, he was here this afternoon; he said that he is 
a friend of yours and Albert’s. Is that true? Do you know 
him ?” 

“Yes, we know him,” he replied, while Albert sat in dumb 
misery as if suddenly chilled by frost. 

“What did he come here for?” asked Ida as she gently 


78 — 


took the paper from her mother’s hand, glanced over it, and 
then at Theodore and Albert. 

“He came to secure a room here, and board; I gave him 
No. 13.” She turned to Ida with the kind-hearted intention 
of keeping the others from noticing the troubled faces of the 
two, until they could answer the young girl’s question as 
they wished. 

“No, he did not come to secure board; he had other 
motives; he is a scheming villain,” exclaimed Theodore 
bitterly. 

“A shameless rascal ; up to all kinds of wickedness. 
There is no good in him,” supplemented Albert excitedly. 

“I was surprised that Rev. Gordon sent him here,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Sheldon, “and I know our minister will be 
equally surprised that I told him he could have a room and 
board without first consulting him to see if the man told 
the truth.” 

“He is a rogue — a deceitful, treacherous fellow, not fit 
to be in any home,” said Albert. 

“That is just what I thought after he went away,” agreed 
the housemother, and she told the interested listeners the 
whole story from the moment he came; but that she had 
hidden the money elsewhere she did not mention. 

“Do not take him into your house on any account,” ex- 
claimed Theodore when she had finished. “That he talked 
piously is only a cloak to hide his villainy.” 

He halted and flushed uneasily, feeling that the others 
were looking upon him with questioning glances, and realizing 
that it was due to them to give an explanation so far as he 
could of his acquaintance with Detwood. 

“We saw this man more than a year ago, for the first 
and only time until the evening that Charles Steele and 
Howard Priestly spent the evening with us here. In return- 
ing from the walk part of the way with them, we met him 
on the street. We had never seen or heard of him for that 
year until we came suddenly upon him; but we know no 
good of him, and earnestly advise you to refuse to take him. 
He is engaged in no honorable work.” 


79 


‘‘But he had a new twenty-dollar bill.” 

“It is most likely counterfeit.” 

“I thought it might be when I took it. It is here; I will 
show it to you.” 

She went to the secretary. “Now, where is the drawer? 
Oh, yes, I remember, I have hidden it, for I thought he 
might — yes, I will get it.” 

“She is frightened and worried,” said xlnna Ellery to the 
girl beside her, “and sorry she let him have a room.” 

“If the man wished to plunder, he had a fine opportunity 
this afternoon,” remarked Sahlen. 

“I suppose he did not consider it a suitable time to 
rummage,” said Stiller, resentfully. 

“He must have treated you very badly,” remarked 
Karsner. 

“He did, indeed.” 

“But how was it that you were ever in with such a man ?” 
asked Sahlen. 

“He has an ingratiating manner; is cunning and deceit- 
ful, which throws one off his guard.” 

“That must be the case,” agreed Ida, “or mama would 
not have been so imposed upon; for she is quick to discern 
evil.” 

At that moment Mrs. Sheldon returned, bringing the 
money-drawer, and taking the two twenty-dollar bills from it, 
gave them into Theodore’s hand. He took them to the light, 
and with him eleven pairs of eyes inspected the new bill. 

“I do not believe it is genuine,” remarked Sahlen. “Com- 
pare the signatures of the treasurer. That upon the old one 
is, of course, correct, but upon the newer one it is written in 
a trembling hand, as if the writer were nervous.” 

“Yes, and here in the corner the printing is not quite 
clear,” exclaimed Theodore; “and look at the word ‘Treas- 
ury’; upon the new one the cross line appears to be longer 
on the ‘T’ than upon the older one.” 

“Yes, it is,” said several in a breath. 

“I will go to the bank as soon as it is open in the morning,” 
said Mrs. Sheldon, “and if it is counterfeit, then — ” 


80 — 


“You are defrauded,” completed Karsner. 

“Yes, now what did I give him? Two dollars. I will 
have him arrested.” 

“First catch your man,” suggested Sahlen. 

“The police will find him.” 

“When and where?” 

“When he comes here to-morrow.” 

“If this bill is a counterfeit, he will not come.” 

“If the two dollars will keep him away, I will be willing 
to lose it.” 

She put both notes back into the drawer, and put the 
drawer into its place in the secretary. Now that her young 
people were all at home, and she had told them all, she seemed 
to have lost the dread that Detwood might be contemplating 
burglary. 

They all resumed their seats and discussed the affair. 

“If the man is a swindler, I cannot understand his object 
in wishing to come here to board,” remarked Sahlen. 

“Perhaps it was only a pretext,” replied Theodore. “We 
have heard that he tried the doors, that he resorted to a false- 
hood in saying that the minister had sent him to Mrs. Shel- 
don; so why believe anything he has said?” 

“How did he know that you two boarded here?” asked 
Karsner; “he must have known it before he came this after- 
noon.” 

It was a dangerous question. Theodore hesitated for an 
answer; but it should not be a false one. “Villains like 
him are always spying around,” he said. 

“Perhaps he followed you from .the factory,” suggested 
Ida. “He may have seen you there and recognized you.” 
The others agreed in this opinion, and looked to the two 
friends for their opinion. They felt that the conversation 
was not only dangerous, but painful. They were trying to 
think of some way to change the subject, when Mrs. Sheldon, 
ever kind and thoughtful, came to their rescue. 

“I am sure you young people must be weary after your 
trip to the country. If you wish, we will have prayers now, 
and you may then retire to your rooms if you so desire.” 


— 81 — 


All agreed to this. A chapter was read by one of the girls, 
and Mrs. Sheldon offered a j)rayer that God would protect 
them during the night. Ida led in a hymn, in which all 
joined, and the little circle separated with cheerfulness and 
with good wishes for refreshing sleep. They went to their 
rooms, leaving ]Mrs. Sheldon and her daughter in the recep- 
tion-room, it being their custom to be the last ones to retire. 

“]\rama,” said Ida, the moment they were alone, “did yon 
notice the manner of Theodore and Albert this evening?” 
“What manner, Ida?” 

“They always appear embarr^ssel when allusion is made 
to their former life. This evening it was more evident 
than ever.” 

“But, Ida, the reason for their embarrassment they gave 
freely and fully. They acknowledged that this miserable 
wretch had led them into foolishness, and no doubt would have 
told what the foolishness was, had any one asked them. There 
is no one but has done some foolish thing, and we should 
not bring it to their remembrance, if it is possible to avoid it. 
Xo matter what they once did or were; they are now re- 
spectable, gentlemanly, Christian young men, and that is 
sufficient for us.” 

“Yes, they are. You should have seen how kind and 
courteous and helpful they were to-day.” 

“To whom?” asked the mother, her face illumined by 
some happy thought. 

“To — all of us, — mama,” said the young girl, noticing 
her mother’s countenance, and reading it like an open book; 
a roguish smile played on her sweet, intelligent face as she 
rose as if to conceal her embarrassment. Bemoving her sash 
and necktie, she laid them upon the table. ‘ 

“Do you mean, kind and courteous to you?” insisted the 
mother. 

“To all the girls, mama, and to me.” 

“Ida, child, you know the rule of our house : Xo flirting.” 
“Certainly, mama, dear,” laughed the girl mischievously, 
“but that rule is only for the boarders; I never entered into 

the contract.” 

Shadow of a Crime. 


6 


— 82 


“Ida/’ exclaimed jMother Sheldon, eagerly, “I know that 
with you it is different; equally educated, refined, and as 
fair-looking and amiable as they, yet you have not the 
advantages of travel and society that they will have, and why 
should I not wish my only daughter a good settlement in 
life 

“Am I so barbarous, mama, as not to be grateful V’ 
laughed Ida, kissing her forehead. “Xow bend your head, 
and I will tell you with whom I am in love.” 

“Well!” answered l\Irs. Sheldon, all the lines in her face 
showing eager attention. 

“Our Henry,” whispered Ida, confidentially, and ran 
giggling from the room and up the stairs. The day had 
been full of enjoyment to her, and her mother’s evident 
agreement in her own appreciation of the party of excur- 
sionists filled her heart with contentment. 

Theodore and Albert had in the mean time gone to their 
room, and, when there, felt no longer the restraint upon their 
words that had been so necessary in the room below. 

Stiller lay upon the bed, his face buried in the pillow, 
while Theodore sat by the table, a look approaching despair 
upon his fine face. The happiness of the afternoon was 
followed by a troubled evening. 

“I do not believe that he will come here to board,” said 
Theodore, after a long and painful silence. 

“I)Ut he ])ursues us; he has sworn to do us harm. lie 
is as impudent and shameless as ever. lie has discovered 
our helpless ])osition, and will take his revenge upon us to 
the bitter end. But what was his object in coming here?” 

“Perha])S he saw the money which ]\Irs. Sheldon had in 
her drawer. lie came while we were all out, that he might 
see the location of the rooms and the ways of the house. 
He offered a large bill, which, no doubt, is counterfeit, in 
order that he could see where she keeps her money, and that 
she is not cautious. He has found out where the keys are, 
and how the locks work on the doors and windows. Mrs. Shel- 
don is innocent, and does not know the ways of such thieves; 
but we know, Albert.” 


— 83 — 


es ; and wliat would we have to make us willing to 
live here were it not tor Rev. Gordon and the letters from 
our dear parents ? Oh, I do thank God that He gave us such 
friends! Father in his last letter wrote that he and mother 
love me with the same tender love as when I was a babe in 
their arms, and that they are looking forward to the Christ- 
mas holidays, when they will see us, as we promised in our 
letters to them.” 

They talked some time longer. Then they’ put out the 
light and went to bed ; but sleoi) was long in coming. 

It was past midnight when Theodore was awakened from 
a light slumber by a metallic sound, and, a short time after, 
the cutting of glass. 

“Albert,” he whispered, touching his arm, “I believe that 
the villain is trying to get into the house.” 

They sat up in bed and listened; the recei)tion-room was 
directly below the one Albert and he occupied, and from it 
came a subdued shuffling sound. 

“Yes, he is in the room below ; come, and make no noise.” 

They arose and dressed speedily, then softly left their 
room, Theodore in the lead. 

“Shall we wake the others ?” whispered Albert. 

“Hot yet; we will deal with him alone, if we can.” 

They went stealthily down the thickly-carf)eted steps and 
into the dining-room, from whence they had full view of the 
front rooms. By the secretary in the rece])tion-rooni was 
the window through which gleamed the electric light from the 
street, making every object visible; and in front of the 
secretary knelt Detwood. 

He had cut a piece of glass from the window directly over 
the fastening, had unlocked it, raised it, and gotten in 
without difficulty or noise. 

Theodore walked forward on tiptoe, and Albert followed. 
The burglar was working with a picklock upon the money 
drawer, which creaked slightly, and did not hear the quiet 
tread of the two. 

Suddenly, Theodore made a spring forward and grappled 
with him, and Albert followed and assisted. A wrestling 


— 84 — 


match followed, suppressed exclamations, and the striking 
of feet against the furniture. The floor trembled, and in the 
dining-room where the table was always set over night, the 
dishes rattled, but no word was spoken. At length the 
burglar was overpowered and lay bound upon the floor, his 
arms and feet fettered by the handkerchiefs of the captors 
and Ida’s sash and necktie, which had fallen from the table. 

“Now, Detwood, we have you fast,” exclaimed Theodore, 
exultantly. Terrible imprecations came from the lips of 
the captured man, followed . by the words, “You two are 
villains.” 

“Very well,” exclaimed Stiller, who still knelt upon the 
arm of the miscreant. “I have never had a greater pleasure 
than this, you scoundrel; our hour of reckoning has come. 
We will see that you will be put where sunlight and moon- 
light will not shine upon you.” 

The burglar answered with a volley of curses; and foot- 
steps were heard scurrying down the steps, and male and 
female voices were mingled. 

“Who is there?” came from the dining-room in the voice 
of Sahlen. 

“Stiller and Summers, and we have him fast.” 

“Whom have you?” 

“Detwood; please bring a lamp.” 

“I have a lamp,” called Mrs. Sheldon from the steps, and 
a moment later the gas in the reception-room was lighted, 
and, while not on the spot, every member of the household 
witnessed the taking of the villain. 

The four girls were gathered on the steps that ran up from 
the dining-room, which commanded a view of the proceed- 
ings. They shivered with terror. Mrs. Sheldon, in her night- 
robe and slippers, with a lamp in her hand, was a fair 
representative of Lady Macbeth. 

“Oh, you miserable hypocrite!” she exclaimed. “Look, 
Theodore, and see if he has broken the lock of the money- 
drawer.” 

“No, it is all right.” 

“That is because he had no time. So this is your piety. 


85 — 


Detwood. By day a crocodile and at night a burglar ! iVnd 
you gave me a counterteit bill. Theodore, take it from the 
drawer and give it to him; or no, we will destroy it.” 

“No, Mrs. Sheldon; let it be kept safely as evidence 
against him. But please give me a rope to tie him securely; 
these ribbons are not strong enough to hold him.” 

“Henry,” she called, “run to the wood-shed and bring the 
rope that is hanging against the wall. Bun, now run, quickly ! 
This is your punishment, Detwood, for saying that the min- 
ister sent you. Instead, you were sent by the Evil One.” 
Henry came with the rope, and the burglar was bound 
securely. 

“Sahlen, Koberts, Karsner, call the police!” 

“Let me go,” said Theodore; “it will be a pleasure to 
help him on his way to prison.” 

At this the imprecations of the burglar were so terrible 
that the girls put their hands to their ears and fled up the 
stairway. 

“Ah, you villains!” he exclaimed; “you have made these 
j)eople believe that you are pious lambs ! Do you think that 
you are any better than I am ? You came out of the peni- 
tentiary, and I am to go in. I tried a burglary to-night and 
am jailed. You tried a robbery on the street and succeeded. 
That is the difference between us. Over a year ago, you, 
Theodore Summers, and you, Albert Stiller, committed a rob- 
bery on the street. You were arrested, and served your term 
in the penitentiary, as I must serve mine.” 

These words had an appalling effect upon the listeners, 
and all eyes were turned upon the accused, who a])peared to 
have turned to stone. 

Not so IMrs. Sheldon; she had turned pale, and had cast 
a frightened glance upon them; but, recovering herself, she 
stepped to the side of the burglar. 

“Shame upon you, you wicked slanderer, to try to injure 
two innocent boys! You told us a falsehood when you were 
here yesterday, and are doing the same thing now.” 

“No, he is speaking the truth,” came from the pale lips 
of Theodore. “Albert and I had just been released from the 


— 86 — 


peiiiteiitinry when we came here. Please guard the prisoner 
while we put on our coats, and we will take him to the police- 
station.” 

lie nodded to Sahlen and Karsner, who, as if dazed, took 
their places about Detwood, and Theodore and Albert went 
U]) to their room. 

]\[rs. Sheldon had thrown herself upon the sofa, and with 
her hands before her face wept bitterly. The young men’s 
faces were paler than ever, while Petwood’s wore a look of 
brutal satisfaction. 

As Summers and Stiller went up the steps and along the 
corridor, they heard the doors of the girls’ rooms quietly 
close, and knew that their occupants had from the steps and 
corridor heard all that had happened below. 

When they reached their room, they put on their coats 
in silence, put their letters iu their pockets, and looked at 
each other imiuiringly. 

“Shall we take all that belongs to us ?” asked Stiller. 

“It would be better; but we have not had our wages from 
the factory, and Mrs. Sheldon has not been paid. Besides, 
I think we vdll be needed to testify against that villain, and 
matters cannot be worse than they are.” 

“Then we will have to stay several days,” responded 
Albert. “It has not been so terrible as I feared it would be. 
We need not be so cast down. Remember the letters from 
our ]^arents which we were reading this evening. They have 
freely and fully forgiven us; we can go home at any time.” 

“That is comfort. AVhat a man has sown he must reap.’ 
Now let us go.” 

They went down, and, taking Detwood between them, 
stepped. to the door, saying good-night to the others. 

j\lrs. Sheldon arose and opened the door, and they 
passed out. 

“You can lock it,” called Theodore, tears tilling his eyes. 

“What ! Are you not coming back ?” she asked in 
astonishment. 

“Not uidess you are willing to have us come.” 

“I not willing? Oh, my Theodore and Albert,” she said. 


— 87 — 


‘‘1 do not know what to say. I cannot collect niy thoughts 
at present. But do come back. Where else would you go ? 
Come back.” 

“We will come,” responded Stiller, and they went away 
with their prisoner. 

“I have salted your soup for you,” remarked Detwood, 
tauntingly. 

Stiller made a move as if to strike him, but controlled 
himself, and they walked on in silence. 

Their trust in God and their letters from their parents 
were their stay and comfort in this trying hour. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Rev. Edgar Gordon^s Advice. 

The next morning all seemed sad, strange, and unsettled 
in the habitually cheerful home of Mrs. Sheldon. 

Ida helped with the preparation of the breakfast, and saw 
that everything was in order on the table. When the bell 
rang, she slipped away from the dining-room. 

The other girls remained in their rooms, and oidy Sahlen, 
Roberts, Karsner, Theodore, and Albert appeared at the table. 

]\rrs. Sheldon poured the coffee, and Henry in his cus- 
tomary snowy apron ])assed it to the guests in a dazed, 
per]:)lexed way. 

The silence at the table was oppressive, but eloquent; 
it signified the condemnation and expulsion of the two 
criminals. 

Karsner looked up at times as if he had intended to say 
something, but relapsed each time into silence. The social 
atmosphere of the dining-room was heavy; each felt a pres- 
sure upon the spirits which could not he lifted. 

As soon as breakfast was finished, Theodore arose and 
followed Mrs. Sheldon to the kitchen. 

“Will you be kind enough to give us our luncheon to> 
take with us?” he asked. 


— 88 — 


“Don’t you intend coming back to dinner?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“No, we think it better not to come.” 

Silently she put the food for a good meal for two into 
a small basket, and gave it into his hand. 

“I must also ask you to allow us to remain one more 
night,” he said; “to-morrow evening we will receive our 
wages, and will settle with you.” 

She looked up at him, and the tears in her eyes and her 
trembling lips betrayed her emotion. 

“Then will you really go away ?” 

“Yes, we only disturb the peace of your house.” 

“Oh, my Theodore, if it were not for the others, I would 
not care.” 

“I know it,” he answered, sadly. “They have never 
passed through such an experience, and it is not surprising 
that they would be shocked to hear what they did of us. 
But something that the villain neglected to tell them I will 
tell you, Mrs. Sheldon. We have done evil, and received only 
what we deserved, but we have repented. During the year 
of our imprisonment we never wrote to our parents; they 
knew nothing of us; after we came here, we wrote to them, 
and told them the whole story, and they forgave us freely 
and fully. This is our comfort. Had it not been for this, 
we could not have borne the great trial that has befallen us. 
Rev. Gordon knows our whole history. We told him all 
before we came here. As a man of God he received us. 
Only one thing more will I say : we believe that our merciful 
Savior will not thrust a repentant criminal from him. Good 
jnorning.” He went out, and was soon out of sight. 

]\rrs. Sheldon was depressed and nervous after the excite- 
ment of the past night, and Theodore’s parting words added 
to her distress. She wept, and walked restlessly to and fro, 
wringing her hands. 

“Mother, mother, be still !” exclaimed Henry, who had 
been sitting in the corner of the kitchen, and now came 
forward and took her hy the sleeve. 

“Let go this minute ! How dare you be so bold as to take 


89 — 


hold of my sleeve,” she commanded; and Henry retreated to 
his corner. After a few moments of reflection Mrs. Sheldon 
went upstairs. 

“Ida, Adelaide, Anna, Tillie,” she cried, “where are you? 
Why don’t you come down? Come, now!” 

The doors of four rooms opened, and four anxious and 
pale faces looked out. 

“What is it, mama ?” asked Ida. 

“Yes, what is it? Why did you all stay in your rooms 
instead of coming to breakfast as usual? Not one of you 
at the table and the two young men are gone, and have taken 
their dinner with them. Oh, Theodore looked so distressed, 
so miserable, that I cannot help weeping to think of it. He 
said he had told Rev. Gordon their whole story, and he had 
advised them. He said that the merciful Savior had for- 
given them, and would not tlirust out a repentant criminal. 
This fact and the letters of forgiveness from their parents 
are their comfort. Oh, children, it went right through me 
to see how they were treated this morning. You all shunned 
them because a rogue led them into a wrong action. Just 
think what would be your feelings if you had been tempted 
into doing something wrong, and had been imprisoned, and 
had come from the prison with a bleeding heart, and sat down 
to a table, and none of the others would come. If all fled 
from your presence and stayed in their rooms, as if to avoid 
a pestilence, how would you feel? And oh, Ida, suppose it 
was our William that some evil person had brought into 
trouble, and he thought he had found a home and friends, 
but they turned their faces from him, and, in a way, drove 
him from their doors despised and rejected?” 

“I did not despise them, mama,” said Ida, tearfully. 

“Nor I,” cried the other girls in chorus. 

“Nor should you,” continued the housemother. “Did 
Christ turn away from sinners? No, He ate with them. We 
should pity such people instead of despising them. This 
evening they are coming back to settle with me for their 
board, and to-morrow they will leave us.” 

“Where will they go?” asked Adelaide Newcombe. 


— 90 — 


“They did not say; but if you all think as I do, they will 
remain here. They are quiet, well-bred, and are trying to 
live a Christian life, and many of the boarding-places do 
not care for that style of boys. They only Avant those who 
will spend money with them in drinking and gambling. They 
can go home at any time, for their parents wrote them to 
come ; but they haA’^e not the money to spare yet to make the 
journey, and Avhile here, they must liaA^e a place to stay. 
Shall we by our actions drive them aAvay from a home Avhere 
they are safe from temptation 

Anna Ellery Avas the lirst to ansAA^er the inquiry, and 
putting her arms about the speaker, she said, “Let them stay 
here. Mother Sheldon.” 

“Yes, my child, if they Avill.” 

“Ask them to stay, mama,” said Ida, “and Ave, too, Avill 
ask them, Avill Ave not ?” turning to the other three. 

“Certainly aa’c AAnll.” 

“This is good of you,” said the housemother. “But think, 
could you stay anyAvhere if treated Avith coldness and dis- 
dain ?” 

“lEit AA'e Avill not treat them that Avay, ^lother Sheldon,” 
explained Tillie LcAwing; “aa^c Avill be as friendly as before, 
and not remember anything against them.” 

So all entered into an agreement to treat the tAvo kindly; 
for a noble emulation ])reA^ailed among them. Mrs. Sheldon 
Avas satisfied that they Avould act in the matter as Christians 
should. 

“That is enough, dear children ; I see that you Avill not 
h)ass by on the other side.’ Xoav come doAAm; and aa^c Avill 
haA^e breakfast, and I am sure aa’C Avill enjoy it more noAv 
that Ave Avish to follow in the footsteps of our Lord.” 

The breakfast Avas much more cheerful than the first one, 
and it Avas a great help in assisting IMrs. Sheldon in banishing 
the aversion, and the self-righteous pride, and in encouraging- 
good resolutions in the hearts of the young peo})le in her 
charge. 

It Avas time for three of the girls to hurry aAvay to their 
day’s tasks in the seminary; and after the sadness of the 


— 91 


morning- ]\Irs. Sheldon felt that there was promise of a more 
satisfactory day than she had dared to hope. Yet she dreaded 
the conversation with the young students, fearing that she 
could exact no promise from them, especially from Richard 
Sahlen, who M-as a leader among them. 

These boys were honorable and upright, and from families 
of the highest standing, as were the girls; and having been 
guests in her house for several sessions in the college, they 
felt themselves justitied in having a voice in the receiving 
of new guests, and she willingly accorded them that i^rivilege, 
they being choice in their associates. 

She dreaded to think that these two who had made such 
a misstep from the path of rectitude would have to leave, 
or the students would write to their parents to secure another 
boarding-house for them. 

Financially and socially, she wished to retain them; for 
her motherly heart yearned over the two, outlawed from 
neighborly love. 

The whole morning her mind dwelt upon the subject, 
considering the most suitable way to bring all this to pass. 
She felt that she had a hard proposition to solve. 

“Ida, how would this answer?” she would ask, or “Ida, 
how would that do?” wishing in every new phase of the 
subject to have her daughter’s opinion and judgment. 

In the midst of her reflections and plans there was a knock 
upon the door of the kitchen, and at the same moment 
a knock at the front entrance. The kitchen visitor was the 
grocer with her order for the day, and the parlor guest was 
Rev. Gordon. 

Ida invited the pastor in, and gave him a comfortal)le 
chair. Then she went to relieve her mother from the care of 
the dinner that she might have time to converse with, and 
receive advice from. Rev. Gordon. 

In the many anxieties of the morning Mrs. Sheldon had 
not thought of him, nor of the note she had written to him 
the day before. 

“What style of looking man is this Detwood?” asked 
Rev. Gordon the moment iMrs. Sheldon appeared and took 


— 92 — 


a seat. “The affair lias given me no rest until I could get 
time to come and inquire.” 

Rev. Gordon was a genius in the art of listening. ITe did 
not interrupt Mrs. Sheldon, asked no questions, made no 
remark, but kept his interested manner, once in a while giving 
an affirmative “So,” or a surprised “Oh,” or an understanding 
nod, or a regretful “Ah” ; and the narrator could see that he 
was not only listening attentively, but thoroughly under- 
stood the case. 

She began with the appearing of Detwood at the entrance 
of her front porch, and drew a vivid picture of all the occur- 
rences of the night and morning, of the easy victory in con- 
vincing the girls of their duty, but her anxiety in regard 
to the boys. 

She was expatiating on the ways and means she was 
planning, when the clock struck twelve, which thrilled her 
in every nerve. It was noon, the guests would soon come in, 
and she feared that Ida, without help from her, had failed 
in having the dinner ready to set upon the table the moment 
they came. 

“I have not told you all I wish, pastor, and have not 
received advice from you; you must stay and dine with us.” 

The minister accepted the invitation; it was just what he 
intended to do, having planned his campaign while listening. 
So Mrs. Sheldon hurried to the kitchen while he sat and 
reflected. 

Soon footsteps were heard on the gravel path, then on 
the porch, and one by one, in couples and in groups, the young 
people came in, ran up to their rooms to arrange their toilet, 
and then quickly came down to the dining-room. 

All were agreeably surprised to see their minister, but no 
explanation was made to them as to the reason of his visit. 
All took their accustomed places. Rev. Gordon was given 
the place of honor at the right of the hostess. A blessing was 
asked over the good and substantial meal, and the pastor led 
the conversation into pleasant channels. He was perfectly 
at home with these young people, and they with him. 


— 93 — 


“But where are your two uew g-uests, ]Mrs. Sheldon?” he 
asked. “I see their chairs are vacant.” 

The good housemother glanced at him in surprise; had 
she not told him all in the parlor, and had he already for- 
gotten it? She opened her month to explain, but Ida, who 
was quicker in understanding his motive, gave the desired 
information. 

“They took their dinners this morning,” she explained; 
“and will not be with us until this evening.” 

“lYhy not share in this good, substantial meal, and with 
these dear young people?” he asked. 

INFrs. Sheldon now began to see what he had in view, and 
was wise enough not to thwart it, but remained silent. 

“They think they are too guilty to be with us,” ex- 
plained Ida. 

“Yes, yes; as a rule, all repentant sinners think that 
way,” he commented, as he glanced at the young, fresh faces 
around the board with fatherly kindness. “lie who does not 
grieve that he is a sinner mixes with reputable people freely; 
but he who, through God’s grace, recognizes it, and repents, 
feels himself not worthy of such associates. He is like the 
publican who could not raise his eyes, and did not press 
forward, but smote upon his breast and cried, ‘God be merci- 
ful to me, a sinner.’ Our Savior tells us that our heavenly 
Father rejoices more over one sinner that repents than over 
ninety and nine that need no repentance. In that blessed 
sentence we discern the love Pie feels for ashamed and re- 
pentant sinners. Our Savior admonishes us to be merciful 
as our Father in heaven is merciful. To such trembling, 
repentant sinners we must show love and solicitude. They 
are timorous, bruised, discouraged. Woe unto us if we vex 
and fret them by being distant and loveless, thus reminding 
them that their sins and transgressions are not forgotten. 
Love can cover a multitude of sins. We must encompass 
them wdth love, and in words of love draw them to God, to us, 
and to a Christian life,” 

Rev. Gordon halted and looked around the circle at the 


94 — 


table, for he had felt a slig’ht touch against his foot; but 
no one seemed to be endeavoring to attract his attention. 

An uncomfortable silence followed his words, but he did 
not appear to notice it. 

‘‘Now,” he resumed, “what I have said is in regard to our 
two young men, and I trust that my words will influence you. 
This Detwood has told what I fear will influence you against 
them; but he has not told you that it was through his false 
friendship and treachery that these poor boys committed the 
crime,” — and then he told his eager listeners the whole 
story. 

“They could have made excuses for themselves,” he con- 
tinued, “but that is not the way of repentant sinners; there- 
fore I speak for them. As your pastor and your true friend 
I pray that you do not look upon them with contempt, but 
treat them as you would wish to be treated, or as you would 
wish your own brother to be treated, should such a mis- 
fortune befall him. ‘Let him who thinks he stands take heed 
lest he fall.’ 

“While upon earth, our Savior ate with publicans and 
sinners, and was not ashamed of them. They had not the 
courage to eat with Him, therefore lie sat with them. Our 
two friends have of their own free will left their places at 
the table vacant because they were not bold enough to eat 
with you. Let us follow the example of our Savior, and 
eat with them, and not be ashamed of them. Let us meet 
them with love and esteem, and not break the bruised reed. 
This is the earnest request of your old pastor. To-day I am 
with you at the table; give your Savior and me the joy 
of knowing that you will kindly receive these trembling 
souls.” 

The minister ceased speaking, and his eyes turned anx- 
iously from one to another. 

Next to him sat Sahlen, who turned, and grasped the 
pastor’s hand. 

“I for one will promise, Eev. Gordon,” he said. “You 
can count upon my being more friendly than ever with them.” 

IMrs. Sheldon leaned forward, and glanced past the min- 


95 — 


ister at the one whose resistance she had dreaded. Her heart 
thrilled with joy, and with beaming* eyes she exclaimed, 
^‘Richard, my boy, you are my best.” 

She had never before said this to any one of her guests; 
but the day, so far, had been without its precedent, and so 
it might remain. 

The dessert was brought on and finished; all arose from 
the table, and each of the group grasped the hand of Rev. Gor- 
don, and promised to be friendly with the two who were 
absent. 

“Then all will be well,” he said, cheerfully; “we will 
enter into a covenant to save these dear blood-bought souls. 
God bless you all !” 

All the 5'oung people felt that they had gained a victory 
over self, and in cheerful mood each one went to take up his 
daily lessons. 

A great care was removed from the heart of Mrs. Sheldon. 
She thanked her pastor for his visit again and again ; she 
said he had surely been sent of God. The young people had 
promised, and would keep their word, and now all would 
be well. 

With a friendly nod and a “God be with you” he left 
the house. 

“Ida,” said the mother, “as soon as you are dressed for 
the afternoon, I wish you would go to the florist, and buy 
flowers to put in a vase on the table in Theodore and Albert’s 
room. We have plenty of the ordinary kind in our yard 
and garden, hut this is a special occasion, and I wish choice 
flowers.” 

“Flowers only for them ?” inquired Ida in her cheery way. 
“Will not the others feel slighted'^” 

“But, Ida, it is only for the purpose of cheering those 
who are cast down.” 

“They all need cheering, mama, after the fright and 
excitement of capturing the burglar. Give a bouquet to 
each and all, if it be only a pansy and rosebud. It will be 
only nine, and flowers are cheap in the summer.” 

“Well, then, take a basket and bring it full. That mis- 


— 96 — 


creaiit Detwood was trying to draw those two poor boys away 
from ns, but thank God be did not succeed. How beautifully 
Rev. Gordon spoke to the young people ! He seems to know 
exactly the best way in everything he undertakes. He was 
right when he said we must draw them with the bonds of 
love.” 

“Should we not draw the others in the same way, mama ?” 
laughed Ida, roguishly. 

“You foolish child, whom do you mean?” 

“Just what Rev. Gordon advised.” 

“But the others do not need it; no one of them is in 
trouble. If any one else should ever get into trouble, we will 
do what we can to help him. Now run and dress, and go to 
the florist, and have him arrange the bouquets. Remember, 
the largest and prettiest are for the two; the other seven 
exactly alike. What eyes our young people will make when 
they go to their rooms and see the pretty flowers !” 


•CHAPTER X. 

A Troubled Hour. 

Theodore, with his basket in his hand, had joined Stiller, 
who had left the table at the same moment, and waited at 
the street-corner. The two walked in silence to the factory. 

There were comparatively few workmen on the streets. 
Several had crossed the corners here and there to shorten 
the way. Business men or their assistants were in front of 
the shops, broom in hand, bakers were taking warm rolls 
to their customers, milk wagons were rattling over the cobble- 
stones, but most of the people were at breakfast, or had not 
risen. 

Theodore and Albert walked along in troubled silence; 
they had not slept the night before; and the future looked 
dark to them. That silent, condemning breakfast had set 
the seal upon their wretchedness. The outlook was without 
hoiie or comfort; their spirits were at a low ebb. 

“I prefer never to go back,” remarked Stiller. “If Chris- 


97 


tians would only make it their aim to help poor sinners, the 
world would be better. Instead, if a sin is made known, they 
shrink back, pinch up their lips, stick their hands in their 
pockets, and refuse to speak one friendly word. Is that 
right ?” 

Theodore sighed deeply as they walked on in silence. 
“Where will we search for another boarding-place?” con- 
tinued Albert. 

“I have no idea; but we must go back this evening, and 
pay what we owe.” 

“Then you must go alone; I will not go back. But while 
you are gone, I will search for other quarters.” 

“But your clothes are there.” 

“I will get some one to go there for them. I have done 
with that Christian household.” 

“Albert, I pray you not to be so bitter. Last evening you 
were so happy in their good company and in reading the 
letters from home; now you give vent to unjust censure. Just 
call to mind that they are all honorable people, and we have 
very lately come out of the penitentiary. They know nothing 
of the good homes we had, Christian parents, and creditable 
relatives and friends, and that before that terrible deed no 
disreputable act could be laid to our charge. All they really 
know of us is what Detwood told, and we confessed it to be 
true. Can you wonder that they feel as though they were 
in the company of outcasts?” 

“But is that just and right?” asked Albert impulsively. 
“Instead of helping us, they thrust us out. It that a Chris- 
tian way to act?” 

“Scarcely.” 

“I think not.” 

“But, Albert, remember — ” 

“Good morning!” cried the boisterous voice of some one 
who came suddenly around the corner and almost ran against 
them. “I am glad to met you boys. You are brave ones, 
truly. I heard all about you from my brother, who is night 
policeman. It was brave in you to catch the burglar. I wish 

I had been there.” 

Shadow of a Crime. 


7 


— 98 — 


“Oh, you are alluding to the event of last night,” returned 
Theodore, coldly. 

“Yes, and to such brave people as you and Stiller we must 
take off our hats and call them friends.” 

The young men did not wish to be called friends by 
“Bill Lightfoot,” as he was called by his associates. He 
worked in the factory and was known to them, for his place 
of work was near theirs, but his obtrusive manner, rough 
language, dissipated appearance, and light opinion of good 
morals were repulsive to them, and they always sought to 
avoid him. 

Now that he had met them, Theodore considered it the 
part of wisdom to respond to his request to relate the in- 
cident, which filled in the time until they reached the factory. 
The steam-whistle sounded for the beginning of the day’s 
work 'just as they reached the entrance. 

When noon came, they went to an empty push-cart near 
by to set out their luncheon, and Lightfoot joined them. 

“So you are staying to-day,” he said. “That’s right, we 
can eat in company. How is it that you are staying this 
noon, when you have always been going to your hoarding- 
house to dinner?” 

“It suited us to bring it to-day,” said Theodore, with 
a flush of embarrassment. 

“They are such particular people in your boarding-house. 
Isn’t it very uncomfortable for you?” 

“Why uncomfortable ?” 

“Oh, because they are so pious. That is the last place 
where I would want to board; no, I would not board there.” 

A few minutes later Lightfoot sprang up, laid his bread 
U])on a board, and hurried to a nearby saloon. In a few 
minutes he came running back, calling as he ran, “I would 
have been here sooner, but all in the saloon were talking 
about your heroic deed of last night. Here’s luck !” He put 
the kettle to his lips and took several great gulps. 

“You two are the lions of the day,” continued Lightfoot. 
“But why did the burglar say that both of you had been 
in tlie penitentiary?” 


He handed Albert his kettle, who declined the beer, took 
the kettle in hand, and with an adroit movement overturning 
it, managed to hide his embarrassment. 

“Now you have wasted the beer; now wait,” and Light- 
foot ran olf, calling hack to them, “They will give us plenty 
more.” 

“The people in the saloon know it,” remarked Stiller, 
despondently. 

“Yes, and next it will be in the newspapers. Well, if we 
find it to be impossible to stay here, our father’s house will 
be open to us.” 

“But we cannot go until we have earned enough money 
to pay our way.” 

“That will not be long; hut in the meantime we must • 
have a place to sleep.” 

“Didn’t I tell you ?” cried Lightfoot, running back, “the 
bartender filled it to the brim, and said tliat if you would 
come to his saloon this evening, he would give you as much 
as you could drink.” 

“We thank the man for his generous oiler,” replied 
Theodore. 

“Does he keep a boarding-house?” inquired Stiller. 

“No; are you going to make a change?” 

“We might take a place nearer the factory if we could 
find the right place.” 

“Oh, there are plenty near there,” and he specified several. 

“We will go only to a respectable one,” remarked Theo- 
dore. 

“Of course; I would not mention any others to yon. 
They are all respectable. Is it really true that you have 
been in the penitentiary?” 

“Why need you concern yourself about it ?” asked Stiller, 
angrily. 

“Gently, Stiller, gently,” admonished Lightfoot; “speak 
at all times as a gentleman. I have been in jail myself, and 
so feel an interest in it. It was a silly aft’air; too much 
Pg0P — too much fun — proved — locked up. The next day 
T heard for the first time that I had struck a man on the 


100 


head with a beer-glass. I did not come out of jail entirely 
spotless, yet I remain a gentleman.” 

His listeners remained silent and thoughtful. They called 
to remembrance the breakfast-table of the Sheldon home, and 
the guests there, who had a different opinion of what con- 
stituted a gentleman. 

“Shall I tell the bartender that you will come there this 
evening?” asked Lightfoot, as again he took a long draught 
from the kettle. 

“Thank jmu; I will not go to the saloon.” 

“Where will you pass the evening if you don’t go to some 
saloon ? Do you find it so pleasant there that you cannot 
leave to pass the evening somewhere else?” 

“It is very i)leasant there.” 

“Then listen ; I will come to you this evening, and bring 
several friends.” 

“Oh, no; we will most likely be out,” said Theodore, 
anxiously. 

“Then I will tell you of another plan. You go to O’Hara’s 
boarding-house, and I will come to see you there. It is 
a first-class place, cheap and good.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Two blocks from here. I will go with you after we are 
through work here, and stay to meet the company. I am 
well acquainted there.” 

“We will think it over until evening, and perhaps meet 
you there,” answered Theodore, noticing that Albert was 
inclined to accept the invitation. The place did not appear 
to be in their line, but perhaps they might stay there until 
they found something better. People branded with shame 
as they were should not appear very fastidious. 

The noon-rest was over ; the signal for resuming work was 
given, and the workmen took their places. The machinery 
rattled, clattered, and hummed, disturbing to the ear of 
those not accustomed to the noise ; but the workmen in most 
cases were so oblivious to it that they could think their own 
thoughts. 

Among these was Stiller, his work being to bring the raw 


101 — 


material to the first turner, which required only a cart and 
his hands, thus allowings his thoughts free range. 

And they did range. lie compared the guests in the 
Sheldon boarding-house with this young Lightfoot. They 
were Christians, and he a reckless worldling. They drove 
evil-doers out of their house; this man urged them to come 
in; they held aloof from evil-doers. Bill drew toward them. 
There the mouths were closed against offense; that of Light- 
foot was opened. What a contrast ! In his opinion the 
situation should be reversed. From the worldling he would 
get a roof over his head; with the Christian he would seek 
and not find. With the Christian, the crime depraved the 
criminal; with Lightfoot, “he remained a gentleman.” If 
weighed in the balance, it seemed to him that the Christian 
would be found wanting. lie believed that he had been 
entirely mistaken; either there was nothing in Christianity, 
or the people in the Sheldon house were not Christians. 
Yet he could not explain to himself why an inward monitor 
gave the warning, ''You are on the ivrong path; go no 
farther; go no farther!” 

He did not realize that the Tempter was leading him 
astray, and through deception and imposture was making 
him err in his judgment. This Tempter was blotting from 
his memory the snares and traps of the worldlings, and their 
own real distress when they were rebuffed from four lodging- 
houses the evening of their arrival, friendless, jienniless, and 
with no prospect of work. Nor did he remind him of 
Kev. Gordon, who with fatherly kindness had exerted himself 
to aid them, of Charles Steele, of Mrs. Sheldon, and all her 
guests, who with loving kindness had made them welcome 
and revived their courage, and whose aim he, the Tempter, 
was now doing his best to thwart. 

Albert Stiller, in his depressed state of mind, did not 
consider that these were Christians who hacj. found Theodore 
and him in trouble, and had received them into their home, 
while the unfeeling worldlings had passed them by; nor did 
he realize that it was Satan, the Prince of Darkness, who was 


102 


doing’ his best to draw them from that good home again into 
the world. 

Wlien the hour came to leave their work, the men 
streamed from all the doors of the factory, and took their 
homeward way, and Summers and Stiller prepared to leave. 

^‘We must first go to the office for our money,” said 
Theodore. But when they reached it, they found it closed; 
the bookkeeper was not there. Moreover, the month was not 
quite out, and the retaining of the wages until that time 
was at the pleasure of the bookkeeper; and no money would 
be paid out to them that day. 

The two felt almost bewildered by this unexpected turn 
of affairs, and stood for a while in silence. 

“What now?” asked Theodore. 

“I will not go to the Sheldon home,” said Stiller, gloomily. 
“I do not wish to see any of them again.” 

“But we must take the basket back.” 

“The basket can wait until we get our money.” 

“But it would really be dishonorable to stay away.” 
“Yes, and against self-respect to sit at a table and be 
entirely ignored, as we were this morning. I feel that I can- 
not bring that again upon myself.”’ 

Summers was silent; he felt equally reluctant to face the 
Sheldon guests again; but what could they do? The situa- 
tion seemed entirely without remedy; and he felt hopeless. 

At that moment “Gentleman Bill” came out of the factory, 
and saw them. 

“Hello, are you still there?” he called. “I thought you 
would wait for me; some friends kept me back to talk to 
them. Why are you standing here before the office?” 

Stiller explained. 

“What, are you in need of money? At O’Hara’s you can 
borrow as much as you want, so long as you have work in 
the factory. Don’t be concerned about that; we can fix it.” 
“Would he lend us enough to pay what we owe where we 
have been boarding?” asked Theodore. 

“Certainly; come, I will see to that; only come.” 

“Then we are out of that difficulty,” thought Stiller, as 


103 


they set out despairingly with Lightfoot. His conscience 
was not at all satisfied. 

The O’llara saloon was, as Lightfoot told them, but two 
squares away. It was where he had gotten the free beer for 
his new friends, and many of the workmen had gathered there. 

lie opened the wire door, passed in, closing it after him, 
his new acquaintances remaining outside. 

lie was gone but a few minutes when he returned. “Come 
in,” he said, “and we will first have a drink before we talk 
business.” 

“We are not thirsty,” responded Theodore. 

“Boys, don’t be such fools; the bartender will treat the 
whole company because he will be glad to make your acquaint- 
ance. It won’t cost you a cent, he says.” 

“We are not thirsty,” they replied, and the assembled 
workmen glanced out, some with curiosity, others with smiles 
of derision. “Gentleman Bill” was well known among them, 
and they agreed among themselves that he had captured 
two “greeidiorns.” 

Theodore turned from the door and looked toward the 
factory, and among the men coming from it he saw Charles 
Steele. 

“Come,” he said to Stiller; and grasping his arm, he 
drew him into the saloon, not wishing Charles to see him in 
the company of Lightfoot, nor loitering about the entrance 
to a saloon. 

The barkeeper welcomed them warmly, and gave the whole 
assembly a free drink in their honor, making it known that 
they were the thief-catchers. 

“He is a miserable hypocrite,” said Theodore to himself; 
“he knows that we have been in the penitentiary. What 
honor can it be to any one to make our acquaintance?” 

d’heodore touched Albert as a sign to leave, and both 
moved toward the door. 

“I hope the gentlemen will soon come again,” called the 
bartender, persuasively, but they were already outside, and 
had made no reply. 

Theodore looked searchingly about, fearing to see some 


— 104 — 


one who would recognize them — yes; exactly opposite him 
on the other side of the street walked Charles Steele. Could 
he have seen them enter the saloon, and waited for them to 
come out? lie seemed to be taking’ no notice; but Theodore 
saw him steal a glance at them, and he felt humiliated, and 
regretted bitterly that they had gone into the saloon. 

It seemed almost a relief from embarrassment when Light- 
foot came out and led the way to a shop, the lower part of 
which was an ale-house, the upper part a dwelling, and the 
back an annex-barrack. 

O’Hara awoke when they entered, and welcomed his vis- 
itors, then waddled behind the counter, and presented each 
with a glass of beer, which they declined ; but their deficiency 
in etiquette was amply supplied by Lightfoot, who finished 
the beer intended for them, and, while doing so, gave his 
host a synopsis of the purport of their visit. 

“Certainly, certainly! If the gentlemen have work in 
the chair-factory,” was his response to the explanation. 
“Supper will be ready very soon, and the other boarders 
will be in. Perhaps the gentlemen would like to wash,” and 
he pointed to a partition at one corner of the room. 

The young men were glad of the opportunity to leave 
the barroom, and had reached the door of the partition when 
they were halted by another question. 

“How much do the gentlemen say they have standing to 
their credit at the factory?” 

“A whole month’s i)ay.” 

“So, so, that is good, very good; and yet, another question, 
but one which must be asked. Has anybody a claim against 
these M^ages?” 

“Only Mrs. Sheldon, for our board-money — twenty-four 
dollars.” 

“So, so; the gentlemen boarded there, I suppose. So, so; 
and has the lady received her twenty-four dollars?” 

“No; we intended giving her a check this evening, but 
the bookkeeper was not in his office.” 

“Ciood, very good; I only — ” 

“They are gentlemen,” interrupted Lightfoot, “honorable 


— 105 — 


gentlemen, brave heroes. Have you read the account of the 
burglary in the papers? These gentlemen caught the thief.” 
“So, so? Certainly I have read it; the newspai^er is 
lyhig on that chair; and these are the young gentlemen! 
They must tell me all about it. Now, your names, young 
gentlemen. Oh, never mind, they are in the paper; I must 
read the article again. And now you can give me a note that 
will enable me to claim your wages. I know you are honorable 
gentlemen, bejmnd all question. But you might die; we all 
must die ; therefore it is better to have the writing in hand, 
merely as a matter of form, and not because I have not entire 
confidence in you. Bad men are very scarce in the world; 
all are good. It is a weakness of the preachers to say that 
they are not ; all that is needed is to understand them. That 
would make an end of fault-finding; isn’t that true. Bill?” 
“You bet!” responded the one who called himself a gentle- 
man. “These friends of mine would gladly settle with the 
old woman and come here. Can’t you lend them the money ? 
That would make it all right, and — ” 

“I? Certainly, certainly; why, yes, of course. Twenty- 
four dollars, did you say, young gentlemen? Good; I will 
write a check for you; yes, yes, certainly. No, don’t thank 
me; responsible gentlemen like you can always get this little 
favor from me. You need money. Well, you can just give 
me a line, stating that I am to draw your wages from the 
factory, a mere line. — What is it, Maggie?” 

A girl had just come in from another room. 

“Supper is ready,” she said. 

“Hello, Maggie !” cried Lightfoot, and running to the 
girl, he put his arm around her. 

The fat barkeeper shook with laughter, the girl laughed 
as she ran away, and the two young men looked on with 
surprised and disturbed faces. 

“Is she your intended wife?” asked Theodore. 

“Certainly she is, but not the only one; I have several 
intended wives'. Wait until this evening, and you will see 
them.” 

The barkeeper was so convulsed with laughter that he 


106 — 


had to grasp the edge of the counter, as ‘‘Bill” capered around 
the room, flattered with the compliment that he was a very 
witty person indeed, while the blood rushed to the faces of 
Summers and Stiller at the shameless conduct of both. 

By this time several men had come in, and passed on 
through to the table; and the two young men, seeing nothing- 
better to do, passed into the wash-room, followed by Lightfoot. 

“Bill, ho. Bill!” called the barkeeper in a subdued voice; 
“come here!” 

“Is it all right there?” nodding his head toward the 
partition, when Lightfoot bowed liis head to hear what he 
wished to know. 

“All right !” was the whispered response. 

“Are you sure ?” 

“Yes, sure.” 

“Then why did they leave the old woman ?” 

“Tlie one named Stiller said it was some distance from 
the factory; but I believe that the woman will not keep 
them any longer because the3" have been in the penitential^.” 

“T)o you mean as prisoners?” 

“Yes, for street robbeiy.” 

“Phew ! That means that one has to be on his guard. 
How did it leak out ?” 

“The burglar told it to revenge himself, and thej^ did not 
denjr it. j\Fy brother is night policeman, and he told me 
of it.” 

“Then it is true, and the mark is on tliem. The dark- 
ej^ed one does not look bad. But I am glad I know it; I will 
bind them up.” 

Then seeing Summers and Stiller about to enter, he 
straightened up and exclaimed, — 

“The gentlemen are ready, Bill. You can go with them 
to the dining-room. A good appetite, 1113^ 3mung gentlemen !” 

After the meal was finished, all returned to the barroom. 
Summers and Stiller iiaid for their sup]ier, and were glad 
that the saloon-keeper was waiting for a more suitable time 
to ask them to sign the paper he had spoken of, as he was 
about to take his place at the supper-table. 


107 


All that remained for the two to do was to sit forlornly 
by the wall, and contrast the assembly of guests with that 
of the Sheldon household. 

Oh, that they could be back in their clean, quiet rooms, 
with the dear people who had been so kind and were so 
worthy of respect ! — and tears of longing tilled the eyes 
of both as they reflected. 

In a little while there was an accession to the conqDany 
already there. Several girls came in, welcomed by Maggie 
and the others as old acciuaintances, and again a comparison 
between them and the gentle-mannered, modest girls at the 
Sheldon home came to the minds of the two. The attire, the 
rough jokes, and loud laughter were repulsive to both. They 
felt they were in bad company, and longed to be away from 
it all. But where could they go ? Who would receive two 
ex-convicts ^ If questioned, neither of them would deny that 
they had been prisoners. 

Then dancing commenced, and heavy shoes time; 

loud jesting and profane language was heard in other parts 
of the room, and the noise was deafening. 

The two from their corner wondered how they could 
leave unobserved. They saw what kind of “respectable^’ 
boarding-house it was, and reasoned what they might expect 
when the beer had taken effect and set the drinkers wild. 

Theodore could bear it no longer, and turning to Albert, 
he whispered, “I will go out the side-door and cross the 
street, and wait until you see a chance to follow me.” 

Stiller nodded in response, and a moment later Summers 
sli]q)ed out quietly, while Stiller watched and waited to see 
if he had been observed, and finding all too much engaged to 
notice him, he took his hat and basket and disappeared, going 
swiftly across the street to his waiting friend, who was 
walking along slowly not to attract attention. 

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, when Albert joined him. 
“Xow let us leave this place as quickly as possible”; and they 
hurried along until they reached a cross-street. 

“Oh, Albert,” he sighed, “where have we been, and where 

are we to go?” 


108 — 


Stiller made no answer. lie glanced up at the electric 
lamps, and thought of the first evening that they were free 
to walk under them and search for a home, and found all 
places closed against them because they were penniless 
strangers. 

“This is the friendship of the world,” continued Theodore; 
“these are the dens into which people drift who make friends 
with such people as Lightfoot and other worldlings. Oh, 
what a paradise is the Sheldon home ! Why did we not 
go back before it got too late? Who knows hut they may 
think differently after they had time to get over the shock 
of last night’s encounter, and had time to reflect. Other 
people have changes of mind as well as we, and the unexpected 
exposure of our deed came so suddenly upon them that thej' 
were overpowered, — and no wonder. Albert, we have not 
done right.” 

Stiller recalled his afternoon reflections, and felt ashamed 
that he^ad for a moment been willing to accompany Light- 
foot to his haunts. He had led them to a gambling den, 
and called it respectable. 

“It is not so very late,” continued Theodore; “we might 
go back yet.” 

“How could we excuse our lateness?” 

“By letting them know the exact truth. We have cause 
to be ashamed of the way we have acted. What have the 
people in the Sheldon home done that we should avoid them? 
They have not said one harsh word to us. Their whole 
offense was silence in regard to our crime. What could they 
say? That in itself was sad enough. They had treated us 
as if we were brothers. We were not worthy; yet, comiDare 
their treatment of us with that of Mr. Pat O’Hara.” 

“Yes, he had to know what means we had before he gave 
us a spoonful of soup.” 

“Let us be glad that he did treat us in this way. Mrs. Shel- 
don treated us as sons, and every member of her household 
was kind to us. How that we are outside that circle, the 
scales have fallen from my eyes, and I long to be with them 
again.” 


109 — 


They walked along slowly, and at length found them- 
selves near the Sheldon hoarding-house. 

“Shall we go in?” asked Stiller. 

I 

“I wish we could ; I would rather be a dog in the Sheldon 
home than a son in that of O’Hara. I feel that I could tell 
Mrs. Sheldon the whole story, and she would not despise us.” 

“But the girls, — what would they say, should we tell 
them that we have been in a dance-house and gambling-den ?” 

“Yes, what would they say?” and Theodore’s heart beat 
faster at the thought of Ida. 

“Let us go to the pastor,” suggested Stiller; “it is not 
very late. We will confess all to him, and he will tell us 
exactly what to do.” 

“Yes, he will. Come, we will go. You have thought of 
a good way out of the trouble” ; and with* lighter hearts both 
took their way to the parsonage. 


CHAPTEE XI. 

A Silver Lining to the Cloud. 

In the mean time, evening having come, all the young 
people in the Sheldon boarding-house had gathered in except 
Theodore and Albert. 

Eichard Sahlen was first to arrive. He found in his room 
a bouquet of choice flowers. While highly pleased, he won- 
dered how and why they had come there. 

After dressing for the evening, he descended to the parlor 
with a rosebud and a pansy against a geranium leaf in his 
buttonhole, and thanked Mrs. Sheldon for the pleasant sur- 
prise. 

“You are very welcome, Eichard; each one of the young 
people has a bouquet in honor of the two. They went away 
this morning very sad, and I wish to give them a surprise 
which may make them more cheerful this evening. Eev. Gor- 
don has shown us our duty; and I wish them to feel that we 
are welcoming them back with gladness. This accounts for 
the flowers.” 


no — 


“It was thoughtful and kind in you, Mother Sheldon, 
and we intend doing- our share toward making them feel that 
we are sorry for the way we treated them at the breakfast 
table this itiorning. Vie should have known that they would 
notice our silence, and mistake it for coldness.” 

“Yes, if the angels in heaven are rejoicing over them, 
surely we poor sinful creatures should not have frowned. 
But we were all like people in a dream. The minister, how- 
ever, awakened us, and from my heart I thank you, Richard, 
that you set the example you did.” 

“And I have thought of something else which may help 
to make up for our coldness. One week from Saturday will 
be my birthday, and I will write to my mother to invite them 
to go with me to my home on Friday evening and stay until 
Monday morning, \vhen we can come back on the early train 
in time for school.” 

“Oh, Richard,” exclaimed Mrs. Sheldon, her eyes beaming 
with pleasure, “it would be a charming thing for them to 
visit your beautiful home in the country. But will you tell 
your parents of the cloud that rests upon them? It would 
be but right.” 

“Yes, I could not take them without telling them all; 
but I know my father and mother,” he continued proudly. 
“They are Christians, and will welcome them as if they 
were long-lost sons. I will invite Karsner to go with us; 
he could not go when Eugene Roberts and Lionel Rice went 
with me on my last birthday.” 

At that moment Karsner came in, followed by Roberts 
and Rice. “What is up, Sahlen?” he asked, “a buttonhole 
bouquet !” 

“It means that I am jMother Sheldon’s best,” he answered, 
proudly. 

“Little Sahlen, boy, what is that you are saying?” she 
exclaimed. 

“Now, now; you know you said it,” he laughed. 

“Yes, I did say it, but the others are also my best; so 
you need not be so conceited. You all have flowers in your 
rooms. Go now quickly, and ornament yourselves vuth them. 


Ill 


Here Anna and the others are coming’. We will have a real 
floral parade when all are decorated.’’ 

All ran lightly up the steps, laughing and chatting, taking 
Ida with them to have her help them to arrange their flowers 
like the one she wore at her belt. They soon returned to the 
parlor as cheery as birds. 

“All for the sake of the prodigal sons,” exclaimed Sahlen. 

“But certainly you rejoice that they are coming?” 

“Have you failed to observe that I was the first to have 
a bouquet? All the others followed my example.” 

“Hear! hear!” the others exclaimed in chorus. “Such 
colossal conceit is as great an affliction as the plague.” 

“Haven’t they come yet?” asked ]\lrs. Sheldon, stepping 
to the parlor door. “Thej' will certainly come soon. Only 
have patience, children, and you will have a good supper; 
you will rejoice with them over the good things tliat are 
waiting to be served. I will go up and see if all is as I left 
it,” and she went up the steps and ahaig the corridor to 
No. 12. Yes, all was right; before the two handsome bou- 
quets lay the Bible, open at Luke 15, and to prevent the 
air from the window blowing the leaves together, she had 
laid a large crimson rose upon the second verse, which reads : 
“This man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them,” knowing 
that the two would follow the parable of the lost sheep and 
the lost silver piece. Then she returned to the parlor. 

“Not here yet?” she said cheerfully; “hut they will soon 
come, and then we will all enjoy our supper. I will go and 
see if all is keeping hot as I wish,” and she hurried out. 

They waited five minutes, ten, and they did not come, 
and then iVFrs. Sheldon returned to the reception-room. 

“I do wonder what is keeping them,” she said anxiously. 

“Perhaps they are not coming again,” remarked Sahlen. 

“Oh, yes, they will come, for Theodore said they would 
be here one more night.” 

“It is strange they do not come when they know the 
supper-hour,” remarked Tvarsner. 

Cheerfulness gave place to sadness. They went to the 
windows to see who would he passing, hoping to see Theodore 


112 


and Albert, but they did not come. ]\lrs. Sheldon felt that 
the others should not be kept from the meal any longer. 
Two fine fowls, roasted to a rich brown, and various vege- 
tables for the first course; and a dessert of lemon-pudding 
with sauce, and fine fruit, would have been heartily enjoyed, 
had not two vacant chairs cried to them so sorrowfull3\ 
Two young men had occupied them that morning to whom 
no friendly word had been spoken. Now they were gone, 
carrying with them the remembrance that all had been shy 
of them, and ashamed of them as companions. 

“We should not have treated them as we did this morn- 
ing,” remarked Karsner, breaking the sad silence. 

“One seldom thinks of the right thing until it is too 
late,” responded Sahlen. 

“That is true in this case at least,” said Wrs. Sheldon. 
“Who of us has considered what we owe them? For what 
would have become of our money and other valuables if it 
had not been for them ? We keep in mind what Detwood 
said, but not what he would have done had they not pre- 
vented him. Who of us has thanked them?” 

It crossed the mind of Sahlen that Detwood’s knowledge 
of Theodore and Albert being there was what led him to 
the place; but the unworthy thought was put aside, knowing 
that they were entirely innocent of having given him that 
knowledge, and he answered sincerely, “Yes, we are an 
ungrateful set.” 

“We had hard thoughts of them, and looked down upon 
them,” continued Mrs. Sheldon. “Oh, children, if you had 
seen Theodore’s face when he talked with me this morning,” 
and her eyes filled with tears at the remembrance. “He is 
a truthful boy, and told me all except that Detwood had 
tempted them to commit the deed. He thought it would 
be putting blame on some one else for what he had done. 
He spoke of the letter from his father, who wrote, ^This my 
son was lost and is found’; and, children, we can only pray 
that we have not driven them to the terrible saloons that are 
always ready to welcome them. The longer I live, the more 
I realize that, as a rule, we make our own care and sorrow.” 


113 — 


lliey sat long at the table, hoping to hear the sound of 
the footsteps of the absent ones; then, disappointed, they 
went to the parlor, feeling ill at ease, their consciences op- 
pressed with the feeling of having 'added to the distress of 
the two who so needed comfort. 

Richard Sahlen had no heart to sit down to the piano, 
nor the others to listen; and after a moment of reflection 
he arose, and, going to the hall, took his hat from the rack. 

“Will any of you, or all of you, go with me to seek for 
them?” he asked of the other students. 

They arose promptly, ready and eager to go. 

“Yes, seek for them,” said Mrs. Sheldon, eagerly; “and 
God will bless your elfort. Go first to Priestly’s and ask for 
them, and if not there, to Steele’s, and if not there, one or 
the other may know where they are. And when you find 
them, tell them that we are all sorry that we acted as we 
did; and tell them that they must return with you; and 
when they come, we will tell them all. Children, bring them, 
only bring them !” 

The four set out, promising to follow these instructions, 
and j\[rs. Sheldon sat at one of the parlor windows to watch 
for their return, while the girls held a consultation, in which 
the main subject was regret for their non-appearance at the 
table, and their willingness to do all they could to atone 
for their neglect of Christian duty. 

The four young men had in the mean time reached the 
home of Priestly, but no one there knew anything about the 
young men. Young Priestly had seen them during working 
hours at the factory, but had not seen them since. 

The four were not discouraged. It was not yet eight 
o’clock, and they had the hope that Charles Steele would 
know something of them; but, instead, the family was sur- 
prised that they had not met Charles on his way to an 
evening meeting. 

“Then he evidently knows nothing of them,” said Sahlen; 
“we must search further.” 

“Certainly we will find them on some of the streets, or 
perhaps at the parsonage,” suggested Karsner, to whom this 

Shadow of a Crime. 8 


114 


thoug'lit seemed an inspiration; and all agreed that that was 
exactly the place where they would go in their trouble. 

But no; when they passed the parsonage, the minister 
and his wife were seated on the porch; and they evidently 
had not seen the two. Touching their hats to them, the four 
passed on. 

^^We could have told them that Theodore and Albert had 
not returned,” remarked Karsner, “but it would have made 
them anxious, and if we do not find them, to-morrow morning 
will be early enough to tell them.” 

They continued their walk, hoping to find them in some 
of the boarding-houses; but to all their questioning they 
received but one response : no young men had applied for 
board that evening. 

On one of the business streets they halted in front of 
a saloon, and Sahlen peered through the screen-door. Within 
sat nearly a dozen men, but Summers and Stiller were not 
among them. 

As he turned, his glance rested upon the opposite side of 
the street, where walked two young men, one of whom was 
swinging a basket in his hand. Sahlen hesitated but a mo- 
ment, then springing from the sidewalk, he crossed the street, 
followed by the others. 

“Summers, Stiller!” he cried; “wait a minute!” 

The young men turned in pleased surprise, glad to see 
them, yet wondering over the change since meeting at the 
breakfast-table. 

“Oh, you troublesome boys, why have you given us so 
much anxiety?” exclaimed Sahlen. “We waited all evening 
for you to come, then we started out to search for you, and 
were so sure of finding you quickly that we stayed together. 
Now we were about to separate and go in different directions, 
when I saw you. Where are you going?” 

“To Bev. Gordon’s. We wished to ask him wBat is best 
for us to do.” 

“We can tell you as well as could Rev. Gordon. T'ou 
are to go right back to Mrs. Sheldon’s boarding-house with us. 


— 115 


We are coiiimaiided to bring you, ‘and we dare not disobey. 
Xow, right about, march!” 

“But I don’t understand,” exclaimed Theodore. 

“We will explain,” replied Karsner, fired with zeal to 
make up for a lost opportunity. “We were all so ashamed and 
grieved that we acted so meanly toward you this morning. 
Rev. Gordon was there to dinner, and he opened our eyes 
to the real wrong we had done you, and we now rejoice that 
we have the chance to make amends.” 

“Are you all willing to have us there again ?” asked Stiller. 
“Tes; hear what Roberts has to say for himself, and for 
Karsner and Rice. Say on, Roberts.” 

“I tell you honestly and sincerely that every one standing 
here, in fact, every one under the Sheldon roof, is not only 
willing, but will rejoice, to see you back,” said Roberts 
heartily. 

“And you really came out to seek for us?” said Theodore. 
“Certainly .we did, you doubting one ! Xow will you be- 
lieve?” asked Sahlen. “Roberts and I will escort you. Rice 
and Karsner will escort Stiller, and we will proceed forth- 
with to rejoice the hearts of five waiting friends,” and he 
took Theodore’s arm. 

“It really seems too good to be true; but we will go.” 
Tears came to the eyes of the four boys, as they heard 
the pathetic words and tone; and taking the arms of Sum- 
mers and Stiller, they set out for Mrs. Sheldon’s. 

“You ran away from us,” continued Sahlen, as they 
walked along; “and now we are running away with you; 
turn about is fair play. We suddenly discovered that there 

I 

were nine evil-doers in the Sheldon household. Henry we 
don’t count; he is literally an hnnocent.’ The discovery was 
actually a blow to_ us. This morning we nine were such 
beautifully white doves that we looked with disdain upon 
the two black crows. Rev. Gordon proved to us that these 
birds were not black, but that an infamous criminal had 
blinded our eyes so that they looked black to us. When our 
eyes w^ere adjusted to see things correctly, we saw that we 
owed a debt of gratitude to the two crows not only for pro- 


116 — 


tecting our possessions, but, perhaps, our lives. This was 
another blow and shock. We laid our hands upon our guilty 
breasts, and sank dumbly in dust and ashes. Then came 
the cry, ‘Where are these crows, these white crows?’ Then 
we grieved, being filled with remorse ; we cried in our hearts, 
‘Go, search for them ; bring them back ! Bring the loved 
birds back to the home nest! And here one evil-doer has 
you upon his arm.” 

“You are an extraordinary evil-doer,” commented Theo- 
dore, with tear-dimmed eyes and faltering voice. 

“I agree with you, agree heartily; Mother Sheldon will 
clip your wings, which will prevent another flight. It was 
owing to you that the roast chickens and lemon pudding 
were as tasteless as sawdust to us.” 

In the mean time Charles Steele had set out from home 
with the intention of calling at the Sheldon boarding-house, 
and asking Theodore and Albert to accompany him. He had 
seen them go into the saloon with Lightfoot, so passed on 
to the meeting, deciding to call upon his return, and warn 
them against one who could do them no good and much harm. 

They had not come, and he was afraid that they were 
being led off, but he said nothing to Mrs. Sheldon in regard 
to it; he intended the affair to remain between them and 
himself. 

He remained but a few minutes. He knew the places 
that Lightfoot frequented, and resolved to make a search 
for the two absent ones. 

He had been gone but a little while when the door was 
opened by Sahlen, and the two diffident ones were ushered 
into the hall, and from thence to the reception-room. The 
waiting ones sprang up to welcome them, and JMother Sheldon 
hurried to greet them. She grasped the right hand of Theo- 
dore and the left of Stiller, who had the basket in his right. 

“I will not censure you,” she exclaimed, by way of\ com- 
fort; “no, I rejoice; for I feared that we would never see 
you again to tell you how grieved we were for having treated 
you so coldly. We were all so occupied with what that 
miserable hypocrite had told about you that we had no 


117 — 


thought of gratitude for you, who saved our money, and, 
perhaps, our lives.” 

‘‘But if we had not been here, Detwood would in all 
probability never have come,” said Theodore, regretfully. 

This was a new phase of the question to Mrs. Sheldon, 
and for a moment she was nonplussed for a reply; and in 
spirit she summoned Rev. Gordon to reply for her. 

“This is all in God’s hands, Theodore. You were here, 
and you helped us, and through you the miscreant is put 
where he will not get a chance for a time, at least, to molest 
any one. 

“Now go to your room and see what we have placed on 
the table for you, while we set up the supper which has been 
kept hot in the oven. Come, Ida, child, and help; we will 
all eat supper again in honor of their return. Oh, children, 
what a joy it is to know that they are safely here instead 
of in a saloon!” 

She hurried out of the room, followed by Ida; and Sum- 
mers and Stiller went to their room, and stood in surprised 
silence, looking at the flowers, and enjoying their perfume. 

Then Theodore’s glance fell upon the open Bible. He 
took the crimson rose in his hand, and read the verses upon 
which it had rested : “This man receiveth sinners, and eateth 
with them.” 

He looked at Stiller and pointed to the words, then sank 
down upon the chair, and covered his tear-dimmed eyes with 
his hands. 

“And see here, Theodore,” said Stiller ; and he read aloud 
the words : “What man among you, having a hundred sheep, 
if he lose one, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the 
wilderness, and go after that which is lost until he find it?” 
He threw himself upon the bed, hid his face in the pillow, 
and sobbed. 

The inward struggles of the day, the shame of the evening 
in the saloon, the unexpected kindness and love they had 
received from the whole Sheldon household, the flowers, that 
comforting chapter of the Word of God, and this dear home- 
like room, overcame them. They shed tears of joy. 


— 118 — 


From the parlor below came the tones of the piano. 
Sahlen had a i)assionate love for music, and that evening *he 
was playing his best, lie was accompanying Rice, who, with 
liis tine tenor voice, was singing : “If ye shall seek Me and 
search for Me vdth all your heart, I will be found of you, 
saith the Lord,” 

It was an air from the oratorio of Elijah, which Rice 
loved, and all rejoiced to hear it, now that sorrow was re- 
moved from their hearts. 

“Who can doubt that Christians abide under this roof?” 
remarked Theodore. 

They made their toilet for the evening, and went down 
to the parlor. In their hearts there was a blessed sense of 
rest, a sweet peace. They had found home. The black 
shadow of the past had fled, they felt themselves held by the 
bonds of confidence and love in that home. 

All went to the dining-room, and took their places at 
the table. Those who did not wish to eat preferred being 
there for the sake of the cheerful company. Each one did 
the best he could to obliterate the disagreeable impression 
of the morning, and as they laughed and chatted, it fled from 
remembrance, and in its stead ruled the serene happiness, 
the cordial good feeling, which was the characteristic feature 
of the Sheldon boarding-house. 

A few evenings after Theodore’s and Albert’s return to 
the Sheldon boarding-house, Richard Sahlen showed Theo- 
dore an opened letter from his mother, asking him to read it 
aloud. It read : 

“My dear son Richard : — I am looking forward eagerly 
to seeing you home on Friday afternoon to pass your 
twentieth birthday with us on Saturday. We would be 
pleased to have you bring with you your two young friends, 
Theodore and Albert, and any one of the other three young 
men that would like to enjoy a short visit to our country 
home. The carriage will meet you at the station, and after 
supper several of the young people of the village will come, 
and you can have a lawn party in the evening. I have invited 


— 119 — 


a few young people to supper on Saturday, to help celebrate 
your birthday. Will be disappointed if it does not suit your 
friends to accompany you on Friday afternoon. 

“Your loving mother.” 

“I have invited Karsner on our way home from the 
college,” said Richard, when he saw the flush of pleasure 
rise to the faces of the two, “and he will go. I hope you 
boys will not decline my mother’s invitation.” 

“Why should we?” cried Albert, joyously, while Theo- 
dore’s tine eyes were dimmed with the delight he had not 
words to express. 

It was so unexpected, this invitation from the mother 
of an only son. She must know of that dark page in their 
history; yet, being a Christian, she was doing what she 
could to restore their self-respect. 

Yes, surely they would accept the invitation, and that 
very evening each resolved to write to his mother and tell 
of the intended visit, knowing it would give pleasure. 

Friday afternoon came, and the four set out; and from 
start to finish the visit was one of unalloyed pleasure. The 
train which they took went through a fine farming-country 
of fertile fields and fruitful orchards; the foliage of the 
woods was brilliant. A slight shower had laid the dust, and 
tempered the atmosphere to a delightful coolness, although 
it was the last week in June. Then the cordial welcome given 
them, and the charming evening with young people who had 
been schoolmates of Richard; the next day spent in the 
beautiful woods near the house, and the drives and the 
boating; the song of birds instead of the clashing of ma- 
chinery, — all these things were a delight to Theodore and 
Albert. The Sunday services in the quaint little village 
church were appreciated by all. The visitors could see that 
the home influence prevented the strictness of the Sheldon 
boarding-house from ever seeming a burden to Richard. 

]\frs. Sheldon and the others took great interest in listen- 
ing to an account of the visit, and all noticed of how much 
benefit it had been to Theodore and Albert. 

Vacation for more than two months was close at hand. 


— 120 — 


and all the guests would go to their homes, with the ex- 
ception of Theodore and Albert. Mrs. Sheldon feared they 
would be very lonely evenings. But when that time came, 
Charles Steele and Howard Priestly made a suggestion which 
was eagerly agreed to by the two. This was, that the four 
should become members of an evening class in the Business 
College, in which each could study the branches which would 
be of most use to them in the future. 

These studies proved to be of such interest that they were 
continued through the fall and up to the holidays. It was 
a great pleasure also to the parents, especially the fathers 
of Theodore and Albert, for it seemed to be the very help 
required to further their plans for their sons, plans which 
they were keeping as a surprise upon their return to Pair- 
view at Christmas. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Farewells. 

When the vacation was over, and the young people had 
returned to their school duties, the debating society meetings 
were resumed, but the four Business College students were 
not willing to lose even one evening from their studies, 
except the last meeting before Christmas; and this was at 
the earnest request of Albert, who wished them to pay that 
compliment to Anna Ellery, who was to have the story of 
the evening, and Richard Sahlen was to have part in the 
debate. 

The hall was full to overflowing. Richard excelled him- 
self in the debate, and Anna’s voice, which Albert considered 
the sweetest on earth, was heard distinctly in the hushed 
silence of the hall as she read her story, entitled, 

Her CiiHisTMAS Eve Reception. 

The weekly sewing-circle of twenty-one members had 
met on iMonday afternoon in the lecture-room of the church 
to set the last stitches in the garments they had made for the 
poor during the year. 


— 121 — 


Now the work was completed; and full suits of com- 
fortable clothing were to be taken that afternoon to the 
expectant ones, each member having with her the name and 
address of the one assigned her, and whose measure she had 
taken for dress and shoes. 

As there happened to be no one in the congregation need- 
ing clothing which she was not able to buy, a committee had 
been appointed to visit the poor and afflicted, and each of the 
twenty members had found a needy and worthy person. 

“Now I must go, for I have to make a call on my way 
home,” remarked ]\Irs. Ames, an elderly widow, as she arose 
to put on her wraps, “and I must remind you ladies not to 
forget my standing invitation to take the annual ‘day-before- 
Christmas’ luncheon with me on Wednesday afternoon. It is, 
as you know, my only entertainment of the year, and I hope 
not one of you will disappoint me by remaining away.” 

“We will come,” was the hearty response on all sides. 
“We do so enjoy our visit with you, and the sweet music of 
Nellie and Bessie.” 

“And I wdsh to add,” continued Mrs. Ames, “that instead 
of my usual menu of sandwiches, coffee, cake, and other 
things that help in the making of a substantial luncheon, 
I intend having my turkey-dinner on that day, that my cook 
and Norah, the housemaid, may pass Christmas Day with 
their relatives.” 

“That is all right; none of us can find fault with that,” 
was the laughing response. 

“Remember, Wednesday, from two to five; dinner smok- 
ing on the table precisely at two, and my cook, Vho is Eng- 
lish, you know,’ prompt to the minute,” and, running the 
points of her scissors in a spool, she put both in her hand-bag, 
together with spectacles and needlebook, and nodding a cheer- 
ful good-bye, she hurried away. 

“Why is it that Mrs. Ames entertains but once a year, 
when she has a large house and an excellent cook, who has 
been with her many years?” asked Miss Rivers, a new mem- 
ber of the choir, who was training the children for a Christ- 


122 — 


mas cantata, and came early to be on hand to receive them 
when they came trooping in from school. 

^^Oh, she has many visitors during the year,” replied 
!Mrs. Travers, to whom her question was addressed, “but the 
day before Christmas is the only day she entertains so many 
at a time, and our circle never numbers less than twenty, 
sometimes more. It is a charming place to visit, one feels so 
at home there.” 

“I am sure of it; Mrs. Ames is so genial and kind. You 
made mention of Bessie and Xellie; are they her daughters?” 

“Yo, she adopted them from an orphan asylum when they 
were very young, having no children of her own. She has 
not only given them the care of a good mother, but all the 
advantages of education and travel, and they give her the 
dutiful affection of good daughters.” 

“Mrs. Ames remarked while here that she had often 
wished that she could see some of the poor women for whom 
the circle sews. AVhy did she not go with the committee 
who went in search of them?” 

“She goes out very little, being far from strong, and 
also a little lame, but does all the good she can, and in 
every way.” 

“How do you find the women who are needy and worthy 
of help?” 

“As a rule, through our laundress, house-cleaners, and 
others in whom we have confidence.” 

“But why are these people needy ; for instance, the 
twenty ?” 

“Principally for the reason that they have small chil- 
dren, and cannot leave home to work, or have not the strength 
to do steady work even if they could get it, or have afflicted 
husbands, or are widows trying to keep a home for their 
little ones.” 

An hour later each lady had placed a full suit, including 
hood, shawl, and shoes, in a compact package, and all were 
donning wraps to go their different ways to deliver them, 
when a new thought came into the bright little head of 
;^^rs. Travers, and she suggested it to the others, whereupon 


123 — 


with many ‘‘oh’s’^ and nods of approval, they all resumed 
their seats to discuss the subject to the finish. 

“But will not Mrs. Ames be disappointed, or j>erhaps dis- 
pleased?” suggested Miss Rivers. 

“Not at all; we who have known Mrs. Ames for many 
years knov' that she is one who accepts everything as from 
CJod’s hand; all will be right, so far as she is concerned.” 

Preliminaries being settled, the ladies again took up their 
packages and separated at the door, and a little later twenty 
needy women in twenty different homes in different parts of 
the city were gladdened by calls. 

Wednesday came, and ten minutes before two o’clock 
there was a ring of the door-bell of the Ames mansion, and 
Nellie flew to admit the members of the sewing-circle. 

“May God’s blessin’ rest upon the swate lady who invited 
me to dinner here the day,” said a tall, thin, pale woman as 
she stepped in, robed in purple, “if not fine linen.” “I am 
Bridget Flaherty, an’ I see more coinin’.” 

Nellie glanced out, and true enough, three more purple- 
robed figures were making for the steps, and perplexed to the 
l)oint of bewilderment, she could do nothing more nor less 
than to pass ]Mrs. Flaherty into the reception-room and the 
waiting Bessie. The others, each of whom had thanked her 
for the invitation to dinner, followed with commendable 
celerity until twenty had put off hoods and shawls and were 
ready to follow Bessie to the parlor where their hostess 
awaited her guests. 

INfrs. Ames did not know the owner of one of the care- 
worn, sallow, and furrowed, but eager faces; but she did 
know the purple calico gowns, and instantly understanding 
the situation, she resolved that, so far as lay in her power, 
the day should be a red-letter day to these poor women. 
Extending her soft white hand, she clasped that of each un- 
expected guest, calling her by name, for they had followed 
the lead of ^frs. Flaherty, who had introduced herself, and 
as all of them had been told the name of their hostess, the 
receiving went on swimmingly. 

Mrs. Ames had just finished finding out “who’s who,” 


124 — 


when the tall clock in the hall struck two, and dinner was 
announced by the cook’s brother, who was serving for the 
day, and she led the way to the dining-room. She seated 
ten of the guests on each side of the table, took the head, and 
Nellie and Bessie the foot, and then asked a blessing, in 
which she thanked her heavenly Father for the friends He 
had sent to her that day. 

Oh, the feast of good things that was spread before the 
unaccustomed eyes of these twenty women, and the beauty 
of it all: could they ever forget it? The glossy, snow-white 
linen of table-cloth and napkins, the sparkling cut-glass, the 
gleaming silver, the vase of rare flowers in the center, the 
tiny bouquets at each plate. 

Then the cook’s brother, who had been a butler in a wealthy 
family in England, with the grave dignity of a long line 
of butlers, lifted the great turkey from its place at tlje head 
of the table, richness oozing from its crusted brown coat, and 
rich dressing Ailing it out to original plumpness, and placing 
it upon a side-table, carved it deftly and speedily. 

Nellie, with equal dexterity, cut the immense chicken-pie, 
and two young cousins of Norah’s having been pressed into 
service, they put a generous supply of both the turkey and 
the chicken-pie on the waiting plates, then served white 
bread, golden butter, vegetables, cranberry jelly, and celery, 
while Norah served rich coflee and fragrant tea. 

And oh, how those guests did enjoy the comfort of it all ! 
No ceremony, no restraint, nothing but sincere kindness and 
cordial good will. Neither was the English plum-pudding 
slighted, but eaten from each plate to the last crumb, and 
was followed by a well-fllled dish of fruit, confectionery, nuts, 
and raisins. 

When the dinner was over, a happy company followed 
Mrs. Ames to the parlor. 

Tears of joy dimmed the eyes of the guests as they 
listened to Nellie’s and Bessie’s sweet singing of old-time 
ballads, accompanied by the piano. Not only native melo- 
dies were selected, but those of their own lands. The satis- 


125 — 


faction was complete when each was presented with an en- 
graving of the land in which the melodies were written. 

Then the two girls left them to chat with each other and 
become acquainted while they went to the store-room to fulfil 
a request of Mrs. Ames. 

Interested as was that lady in listening to the quaint 
opinions of Mrs. Flaherty, whom she had engaged in conver- 
sation, she caught snatches of that going on around her, 
for not one of the twenty was slow in seizing the opportunity 
to become acquainted with the other nineteen. 

Although of different nationalities, they were one in 
sharing in the world’s work in their humble spheres, and it 
would have gladdened the hearts of venders of soap, starch, 
and bluing, could they have heard the free advertising their 
especial brand of wares was receiving. 

The hall clock struck five, and although in the middle of 
a sentence, Mrs. Flaherty, who had been the first to arrive, 
hurried to the reception-room and donned hood and shawl, 
the others copying her movements with praiseworthy fidelity, 
and all returning to the parlor in her lead. 

Patterning after her, they each held out a toil-hardened 
hand to be clasped by that of their hostess, and realizing that 
they could not improve upon Mrs. Flaherty’s farewell address, 
they echoed her words in which the heartiest blessings were 
asked to rest upon Mrs. Ames and all belonging to her. 

As they passed through the hall on the way to the street 
and their alley homes, Nellie put into each hand a package 
containing nuts, raisins, confectionery, and cake, put up 
for them from the well-filled store-room, and received in 
return blessings from truly grateful hearts. 

‘h\n’ what doos ye be thinlvin’ was the beautifulest an’ 
grandest of all we did be seein’ the day?” asked one of them 
of Mrs. Flaherty, as they were slowly passing a group of 
ladies on the street. 

This momentous question could not be answered Avithout 
due reflection, and Mrs. Flaherty reflected, — 

‘^1 do be thinkin’,” she said, with emphasis, “that all Avas 
beautiful ; but the very grandest was the havin’ of three 


126 — 


nate young gurrels standin’ ahint our cdiairs an’ waitin’ 
on us.” 

The group of ladies mentioned were members of the 
sewing-circle on their way to take supper with Mrs. Ames, 
each carrying a box or basket, in which were duplicates of 
the viands which that lady set before them at her ‘May- 
before-Christmas” reception. 

They were joyously received, and Nellie, Bessie, Norah, 
and the cousins arranged the supper-table in the most artistic 
manner, and a merry party enjoyed the meal almost as well 
as did the guests who preceded them. 

When they were about to depart, ISlrs. Ames said as she 
clasped their hands in farewell, ‘^Dear friends, you have 
given me one of the most enjoyable days of my life. I have 
at last seen the very poor of whom I have so often heard, 
and I have had the pleasure of your ever welcome and 
charming company.” 

vr ^ *3f 


Anna Ellery’s story was well received by the audience, and 
the meeting, the last that Theodore and Albert were destined 
to attend, was a success in every respect. They bade their 
friends there good night, as they were to leave for Eairview 
the next morning, to remain over the holiday week. 

Mrs. Sheldon was glad that the two wanderers had re- 
turned to her home, and looked forward to many days for 
them under her roof; but she also rejoiced for them when 
they wrote of a change of plans, and that they were to 
remain in Eairview. 

Their respective fathers intended establishing them in 
business in that city, and the knowledge they had gained in 
the Business College would be of great use in the line of 
work they had chosen. 

In the mean time Alphonso Detwood’s trial had come on, 
and many evil deeds were brought to light, among them 
the making of counterfeit money. lie was sentenced to the 
penitentiary in Waterfield for the term of fifteen years. 


127 — 


and his cell was 304, where through his treachery Theodore 
and Albert had passed an unhappy year. 

Letters passed between the two young men and the Shel- 
don boarding-house for several years; then, when well estab- 
lished in business in their native place, they returned to 
visit Medina. 

They had been kept apprised of the changes; the young- 
people who had been their associates had finished their 
school-days, had returned to their homes, and new pupils 
of the college and seminary gathered around Mrs. Sheldon’s 
table and were under her motherly care. 

But the revered pastor was still in his church and par- 
sonage, and during their visit he united two couples in the 
holy bonds of matrimony. When Theodore returned to his 
home, he was accompanied by his beloved wife, Ida, and 
Albert by his equally beloved wife, who had sung so sweetly 
the air from Elijah when she was Anna Ellery. 













